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The House 

by the River 

By Barbara Kent, ! 


ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAVIS. | 



I ledger , , 
Library. 


No. 123. 


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6— The Great Kenton Feud 

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THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 





THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER 


H Noocl. 


BY 



BARBARA KENT. 



ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 


PUBLISHERS. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY » ISSUED MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE| SIX DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 12t| 
MAY 1| 1895. ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N, Y.^ POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLA99 MAIL MATT5I^« 




Copyright, 1895, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 

(All rights reserved.) 


• • - 

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« -i 


I 


! 



THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 

♦ 


CHAPTER L 

T he club-room was very bright and warm. Un- 
der a tinted lamp two men sat smoking, yawn- 
ing occasionally as they looked out at the 
falling snow, and then at the leaping fire in the brass 
grate. 

I say, Armstrong, did you know Raritan had come 
back ?" asked little Charley Frere. 

“ The deuce !” said the other. 

“ Not the deuce at all, but a great, big, tanned fel- 
low, with eyes like sapphires, and a handshake strong 
enough to grind an ordinary man's fist to bits. Lucky 
fellow, too. He 's had his share of roughing it. He 
went away — let 's see — eight years ago, a stripling of 
tw’enty, poor as a pauper. He speculates, tries min- 
ing, spends four years as a trader in Honolulu, loses 
two fortunes, makes a third, bigger than either of the 
others, and, to cap his great good luck, hears that his 

[ 7 ] 


8 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


great-aunt Matilda has at last gone off the hooks and 
left him a cool two millions. If that isn’t luck, I ’d 
like to know a name for it.” 

“ Is he going to settle in New York ?” 

“Yes, and be one of the biggest catches of the 
season.” 

“ Then he didn’t marry during his exile ? If I re- 
member Sidney Raritan right, he was not the sort of 
young chap likely to grow into a w^oman-hater.” 

“ Perhaps he was disappointed in love.” 

“ Perhaps. Have another cigar ?” 

Meanwhile, the man of whom they talked was cross- 
ing the marble hall of the club-house, and in another 
moment stood on the steps looking at the snow as it 
came blowing against his face in a white flurry. 

Ah, how he loved it ! This snowy night was so like 
the nights when, as a boy, he had coasted along this 
very street. How the white flakes came hurrying 
down ! How quiet the great city was ; even the roll 
of the cabs and the whirr of the elevated trains, that 
gleamed by in the distance, had their clamor softened 
to velvety sounds by its soft touch. Sidney drew up 
the collar of his great-coat, lined with shaggy bear- 
skin, and started at a swinging pace down the street. 

“ I ’ll walk back to the hotel, by Jove, and have a 
feast of this white, magical night. It seems specially 
ordered for me. Oh, after the sun of Honolulu, how 
exhilarating it is ! After all, no land is like the place 
of one’s birth,” he thought, with a pleased laugh. 

Crossing the wide avenue, he continued along the 
spacious side-street toward Broadway. 

It’s good to be merry and wise; 

It ’s good to be loyal and true ; 

It ’s good to be off with the old love 

Before you are on with the new.” 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


9 


The old song broke softly from his lips all uncon- 
sciously. 

“ Hang it ! What am I singing ? Ah, there is no 
old love, and no new one, either, for that matter," he 
thought, a little bitterly. “ In my mad struggle for 
fortune, there was no time for sentiment. Whether I 
could love or not, I do not know. It seems to me a 
girl, to touch my heart, must have more than beautiful 
eyes and pretty lips — more than mere beauty. In fact, 
she must — ’’ 

The thread of his musings was broken by a low, sob- 
bing, frightened cry, that seemed to come from the 
ground at his very feet. 

The spot was in the deepest shadows between the 
lamp-posts, and for a moment he could see nothing ; 
but as he continued staring at the spot from which the 
heart-broken, terrified yet almost smothered weep- 
ing came, he detected a huddled figure, and saw that 
the snow was glorified by the long, golden strands of 
a girl’s hair. 

“ Good heavens ! Some poor outcast," was the 
thought in Sidney’s mind, as, his warm heart aglow 
with pity, he stooped to lift the crouching figure from 
the bed of snow. 

“ You are in trouble ?’’ he asked. 

At the sound of his voice the girl — for she was not 
more than eighteen — gave a shuddering scream and 
moved rapidly away a few steps, then fell weakly upon 
the steps of a beautiful house, where the whiteness of 
the snow was brightened by the purple and crimson 
bars falling from a double doorway of stained glass. 

“Oh, my heart — my poor heart !" she moaned in 
terror. 

Sidney bent over her, and then started back with an 
exclamation. This was no outcast, as he had fancied, 


10 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


but a radiantly lovely girl, the loose folds of a pale, 
dove-colored silk peignoir flapping in the icy wind. 

On her small, clenched hands jewels glittered. Her 
face, while marked by an awful fear, was yet the 
gentle face of one used to refinement. 

Ah, it was a pitiful, frightened pair of deep, dark 
eyes that were raised to his questioningly. 

She looked as if she had fled hastily from a luxuri- 
ous room ; for only thin slippers were on her feet, and 
her head was bare — the golden, glittering hair rippling 
around her like a veil that imprisoned sunbeams. 

It was no time for parleying ; and Sidney, laying 
his hands forcibly upon her shoulders, forced her to 
look at him. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” he said, in his low-toned, soothing 
voice, as he noted the startled, blank look in her great, 
dark eyes. “ Why are you here ? Who has frightened 
you ? Let me take you home, won’t you ?” 

“ Home ? Home ?” and she started up, her whole 
body shuddering. A murderer awaits me there — a 
murderer crazed by liquor and morphine ! This — this 
house is my home — this,” and she waved her hand 
toward the mansion at whose door she stood. “ But I 
dare not venture in. A madman stands in the shadow. 
He tried to kill me. I feel his fingers yet upon my 
throat — I see his eyes !” 

Was she the victim of delirium ? Had she escaped 
from a sick room while a careless nurse slept ? 

Sidney could think of no other explanation of her 
words. That a madman had entered her home and 
tried to kill her seemed absurd. 

“ AVhat did he look like — this would-be murderer ?” 
Sidney asked, trying to humor her, while he thought 
of some plan of getting her back into the house. Do 
you know ?” 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


11 


She broke into low, hopeless laughter. 

“You think me mad — or wandering in my sleep, I 
see. Oh, if it were only so ! What shall I do ? How 
can I give my shameful secret to the world, and have 
the papers ring with it to-morrow ? The story that I 
was found shivering outside my own door, afraid to 
enter, and all because this demon bears the name of 
husband to me, would read highly sensational to the 
public.” 

“ Your husband ?” 

“Yes,” she half sobbed. “He came home — as he 
has often done before — mad from his nights and days 
of dissipation. I heard his step in the hall, and my 
whole soul rose in revolt to think that it was to such a 
man I was married. I thought : Will he pass on to his 
own room ? Will I be spared a sight of his hated face ? 
These were my thoughts as I stood shivering.” 

While she spoke, she clnng, half frantically, to Sid- 
ney's arm, and, as if fascinated by the pity and horror 
in his true eyes, gazed deeply into them. 

“ When he flung the door open, I saw a look on his 
face it had never worn before. I knew he had grown 
to hate me months ago, and in that terrible moment I 
saw he was mad, and that his hate would make him 
murder me.” 

Sidney doubted no longer ; but as his eye fell upon 
the number on the door, he asked, hastily : 

“ Surely, this is the old Hetherford mansion ?” 

“ It is. I am Ripley Hetherford’s miserable wife.” 

No wonder a cold, shrinking feeling settled around 
Sidney’s heart. So young Hetherford had come to 
this ? With wealth, an old family name, a beautiful 
young wife, he had sunk to such depths as she de- 
scribed. 

Sidney remembered the handsome lad young Heth- 


12 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


erford had been, and then looked at this lovely, fright- 
ened face, so near to his own, whose terror was the 
result of his bestial cruelty. He shuddered to think of 
the change that must have come to him. 

“ Do not tremble so,” he said, firmly, encouragingly. 
“ I know Ripley Hetherford, and I will see that you 
suffer no more at his hands. Come ; you are cold ; 
your teeth are chattering. There — there — don’t shrink 
away. Enter your home again boldly, and leave me to 
seek your husband, and either bring him to his senses 
or restrain him so that he can do you no further injury. 
Come. You wait in the drawing-room ; he need not 
know that you have returned. I will find him.” 

She obeyed, as if led on resistlessly by that deep, 
magnetic voice, and by the firm hand that grasped her 
small, trembling one, and in a moment they stood on 
the top of the steps. 

“ The servants are all asleep,” she faltered. But I 
think I left the door open in my mad flight.” 

“ Where did you leave your husband ?” asked Sidney, 
gently. 

“ Upstairs,” and she shot a terrified glance into the 
gloom above. 

Pushing aside the portieres at the drawing-room 
door, Sidney led her in, and she sank, half-fainting, 
into a deep, tapestried chair, by the fading embers of 
a wood-fire. 

“ Be careful — oh, be careful,” she whispered, and 
for a moment clung to his hand. 

Then, for the first time, Sidney realized how abso- 
lutely, flawlessly lovely she was. A brow and nose like 
Juno’s ; a small, full mouth, tenderly mobile ; small, 
round chin, cleft by a deep, enticing dimple ; eyes like 
those of the Spanish girls of Southern Calfornia — vel- 
vety, long-lashed, and filled with a radiance that 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


13 


seemed to slumber far into their midnight depths ; hair 
like the gold of a sunset sky. 

And her soft, prayerful voice — hov7 it pierced his 
heart ! How her cold, clinging hands thrilled him ! 

As if looking at a dream, Sidney Raritan knew, 
in a shadowy way, as he stood there face to face with 
Vida Hetherford, that he could have loved her. 

Could have ? 

Bitter words that told she was not free — that she was 
beyond his winning ; bound by law to one who tram- 
pled upon what he should have cherished so tenderly 
— her woman’s heart. 

He withdrew from her half-unconscious grasp upon 
his hand, and hurried upstairs. 

“ Hetherford !” the young wife below heard him 
call. “ Hetherford !” 

There was no answer. 

Sidney walked to where, at the end of a passage, a 
door stood ajar. Then Vida heard a whispered cry. 

She waited breathlessly, and despite her fear, crept 
into the hall, listening. 

“ What is it ? Why do I hear no sound ?” she whis- 
pered to herself, while her heart seemed to rise in her 
throat and choke her. 

And while she paused there, the suspense of a life- 
time crowded into a moment’s space, she saw Sidney’s 
white face appear above the balustrade. It was filled 
with an unspeakable horror. 

“ Come. There is nothing to fear,” he said, in a 
strange voice. 

Wonderingly she went up ; and forgetting that a 
few moments before they were strangers, he passed 
his strong arm tenderly about her. 

“ It is horrible,” he said ; “horrible ! But do not be 
afraid ; he will not hurt you — now ” 


14 


THE HOUSE EY THE RIVER. 


They stood at the threshold gazing at a figure 
stretched motionless on the floor. 

It was Ripley Hetherford — silent — hideously silent. 

His face was purple, and over his parted, rigid lips 
lay a stream of blood, slowly congealing. 

As if in battle with some mysterious foe, he had 
died. His arms were twisted, and in one of his fiercely 
clenched hands a dagger still glistened. 

He is not dead ?” Vida whispered, in an awed voice. 

“ Yes ; I felt his heart. He has died from the burst- 
ing of a blood-vessel in the brain,” said Sidney in a 
quiet whisper. 

“ Dead ?” said Vida, still in the same strange voice, 
as if she could not realize the appalling truth. Dead ! 
He is dead ! He is dead !” she repeated. 

As the last words left her lips, a weary sigh flut- 
tered from them, and she swooned in Sidney’s arms. 




CHAPTER II. 

It was six months later, the middle of June, but not 
the sort of weather one might expect from the sunny 
month of roses. 

This day was wet ; a chill wind stirring that robbed 
the apple-trees of their radiant pink bloom in shoals. 
The sky was heavy, a brooding, leaden gray ; the 
cows browsing in the damp pastures shivered and 
sought the shelter afforded by the blustering, swaying 
trees. All the landscape was drear and cold. 

In one of the suburbs of New York city, just where 
all traces of the city’s life were being lost in the green 
and solitude of the country, there was a long, narrow 
road that cut through a wood, sloped down a hill and 
then followed a straggling reed-edged stream for more 
than a mile. 

On this road there stood a strange old house. It 
was lonely, shuttered, out of the regular track of travel 
and distinctly under a cloud of some sort. 

Silent, weather-beaten, forlorn, it remained apart, 
holding within its walls the secret of a murder that 
had been committed there twenty years before. 

It was known as “ The House by the River,” and few 
of the people living in its vicinity ventured past it after 
nightfall, or even in the full ahernoon of a cheerless 
day like this. 

[15] 


16 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


And yet — surely there was now the sound of horses’ 
hoofs splashing in the soft soil and the muffled roll of 
carriage-wheels ! 

Presently down the hill a mud-stained carriage ap- 
peared and paused at the long unused gates of the 
house by the river. 

The door was opened, and while the driver from the 
small, northern station stared and stared at these ^visit- 
ors to the place so long shunned, an old negro, white- 
haired and bent, stepped out, followed by a man — but 
whether master or fellow-servant, negro also or white 
man, could not be ascertained. 

“ By the hokey-pokey, what 's the matter with the 
man ?” was the half-frightened thought in the driver’s 
mind, and instinctively a chill ran through him. 
‘‘ Nayther whin he got out of the thrain nor whin he 
got into the carriage nor now, have I been able to get 
as much as a peep at his face.” 

That strange figure was a man — this the broad 
shoulders and poise of head denoted — but so shrouded 
was he in the strange, long coat, his head wrapped in 
black silk, and the lower part of his face protected by 
a great, thick shawl, between which the dark, restless 
eyes alone were visible, that his personality was com- 
pletely hidden. 

As the driver saw the old negro unlocking the door 
of the mysterious house, he looked around at the wet, 
bleak landscape and then at those two lonely figures, 
and his broad, good-humored face grew pale. 

“ A fitting pair for such a place. The saints protect 
us if strange things are not done there before long. 
Whin a man comes wid his face covered as if he had 
the toothache and headache and small-pox all in one, 
and takes a house that every livin’ bein’ shuns as they 
would ould Nick, look out. That ’s all — look out.” 


LET ME TAKE YOU HOME, WON’T YOV?’—See Faye 1(». 



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THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


17 


With this wise reflection he whipped up his horses 
and rattled away, pausing, however, on the top of the 
hill to look back once and shake his head. 

It was some time before the old negro could make 
the key turn in the rusty lock, and the strange new- 
comer struck his hand impatiently against the door. 

“ Hurry, for Heaven’s sake, Remus !” came in a 
softly modulated but imperious voice from between 
the folds of the shawl. 

“ Here ’t is massa. ’T war mighty stiff. You know 
it ’s a monf since I war here last.” 

He flung back the door, and the strange, mufided fig- 
ure entered with a stately stride. 

“ I fixed youah room, dar, sah,” and the servant 
pointed to a door to the right of the narrow, old-fash- 
ioned hall. 

Within there was a comfortably furnished study, a 
pile of fagots on the hearth ready for lighting. 

“You have provisions, matches, everything ready?” 

“ Yas, massa. In a minute I ’ll have a mighty good 
suppar ready for you. Ise got the chickens and every- 
thing right here in this yer hamper.” 

As he went toward the fireplace to start the fagots 
into a blaze, his master moved nearer, stretched out 
his arms, and they were clasped around the old serv- 
ant’s shoulders. 

Was that a sob that came from the unseen lips ? 

“ Oh, Remus, Remus — you are good — you are of 
gold ! How shall I ever let you know what my heart 
feels for you ?” 

“’T ain’t nothin’, mas’r, ’t ain’t nothin’,” Remus an- 
swered, his dimmed eyes clouding with tears. “ ’T is 
just this way ; Ef you hadn’t b’en good to ol’ Remus 
all his life, he wouldn’t be yere now. So, ’t is only 
your reward, Mas’r Love.” 


18 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Not that name, Remus ; never that name again,’ 
came in a shuddering whisper from the other’s lips. 

“ Of co’se, Mas’r Fairleigh, I mean. I fo’got jes’ for 
a minute. But you mustn’t feel so bad. You ’ll be 
right comfo’ble here, and dere isn’t no better cook in 
de hull country dan ol’ Remus, ef he does say it his- 
self.” 

“All right and comfortable — yes,” was the answer, 
tinged with an awful melancholy. “ So I will be. 
Safe, well fed and quiet. I will be all of that. But 
what of my life, Remus — my hopes, my dreams ? What 
of the great, bright, beautiful world, closed to me for- 
ever — lost — lost ? Remus, what of that 

He sank into a chair, and in the silence that ensued 
in the shaded room the pattering of the raindrops 
could be heard falling like silver drops upon a pall. 

It was a picture that was all of gray — the shuttered 
room, the dark figures, the fireless hearth. 

“ Don’, mas’r, don’ say it ! It breaks my heart to 
heah you !” prayed the old man. 

But a sudden agony of regret and despair had seized 
the other, and he flung out his arms with a cry that 
voiced the revolt of a torn heart, a sick soul. 

“ Oh, if instead of giving me this ghastly secret to 
keep, you had killed me outright ! What is death to 
this ! Why, it is something sweet — sweet. And yet, 
coward that I am, I dare not snatch its forgetfulness 
for myself. I loved the world — men — the sunlight — 
fair women — my son — my friends — my ambition — and 
I have lost all. Is this fair ? Oh, what a picture — 
what a picture ! It is black without a gleam of light.” 

As he spoke, the old negro lit the wood and it blazed 
lip cheerily. 

“ Draw your chair up, mas’r, and forget sech 
thoughts ; come— do,” he pleaded. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


19 


1 will in a moment, Remus,” he answered, in a 
voice that was horribly quiet now, after the storm of 
feeling. “ Leave me for a moment — a little while.” 

Obediently the old man hobbled out, and the strange 
occupant of the house by the river was alone, the great 
tongues of flame seeming to lick out toward him like 
friendly things, bidding him welcome to the gruesome 
abode. 

He sighed, then a whisper, slow and fateful, left his 
lips. 

“ I said I had nothing to live for — nothing. And I 
forgot him. I forgot that here, in my seclusion, I 
could deal him the blow I have often longed to strike 
straight to his heart. Oh, yes, this much is left me. 
And I shall not fail to know of his every action, of his 
hopes, his plans. I shall wait until the time is ripe 
before I strike. It will be when he is happiest — when 
he loves happily, when there is no cloud in his sky — 
not one. Then the thunderbolt will fall.” 

A dreary laugh floated from his lips. It echoed in 
the shadowy corners like the sound from ghostly lips. 

“ A bitter purpose for life — yet it has sweetness in 
it. I hate him. And to think that once he was as 
dear to me as a brother. Love and hate lie close to- 
gether. He wronged me, and I swear he shall repay 
me with what is dearest to him — his happy life.” 

He sat for a while longer looking at the fire, then 
rose wearily, and, going behind a curtain that shielded 
one of the corners of the room, changed his damp 
clothes, that were also wrinkled and dusty from long, 
long travel. When he emerged he was robed in a 
brown garment, as closely draped as a friar’s robe. 

The long, flowing, pointed sleeves fell down, com- 
pletely hiding his hands ; the cowl fell over his face so 
that only his dark beard was visible. 


20 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


What sort of a man did that garment conceal ? 
What kind of a heart beat under those folds ? What 
manner of brain was covered by that gloomy hood ? 

No hint was given. The man was a mystery, and 
none shared his secret but the faithful old servitor 
who would gladly have died for him. 

When the round table was daintily laid for dinner in 
the firelight’s glow, and old Remus was busily tempt- 
ing his master with the broiled chicken, salad and 
ruby-tinted wine, a loud knock sounded on the door. 

“ Lawd !” gasped Remus. “ Who ’s a cornin’ visitin’ 
already ? Who knows we wuz here ?” 

“ Don’t be alarmed, Remus,” answered Mr. Fairleigh, 
an eager quaver in his voice. “ I expect this visitor. 
He comes in answer to a letter I posted in New York. 
Show him in here.” 

But — but — mas’r, ain’t you afraid— ain’t you scared ? 
Ef he should find out about you !” faltered Remus, 
pausing half way to the door. 

“ Do not fear. I have a part to play, and I will do it 
well. You can trust me, Remus,” and he waved his 
hand commandingly. “ Hurry ; it is no weather to 
stand outside.” 

Mr. Fairleigh rose and stood in an attitude of wait- 
ing as he heard the door opened. A man’s voice spoke 
his name questioningly, and then footsteps followed 
old Remus down the hall the short distance to his door. 

It was a small, spare man with a shrewd gray eye 
who stood there upon the threshold, his hat grasped in 
his hand. 

An expression of suspicion and curiosity overspread 
his face, as he took in all the details of that room, only 
half revealed in the firelight. 

The figure was not the sort of man he had expected 
to see. What mystery was here ? 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


21 


“ Pray be seated, won’t you, Mr. Griggs. I believe 
this is Mr. Griggs of the New York detective force ?” 
and Mr. Fairleigh advanced a step. 

“ The same, sir.” 

“I am Mr. Fairleigh. You are doubtless surprised 
at the costume 1 wear, which so completely hides me. 
It is due to sensitiveness, which, I hope, you will not 
think foolish in a man of my years.” 

And there was a pitiful ring in the deep voice. 

The facts are these : A few months ago I was in- 
jured in a boiler explosion, and since then I have been 
an object of loathing in face and body. I would rather 
die than let the eyes of another rest upon my face, 
which is awful beyond words. My hands are shriveled 
to hideous things that do not look human. I have 
hidden myself from the world, and here I will die. But 
I am wealthy — enormously wealthy — and I have a pur- 
pose in view for which I require your help. It is for 
this I need you.” 

He sank into a chair as he finished speaking, evi- 
dently exhausted. 

“ That throws him off the track, I think,” was his 
hasty thought. 

My dear sir, you need say no more,” said Mr. 
Griggs, bowing. “ I will respect your secret.” 

But to himself he said : 

“ Has he spoken the truth ? I ’ll never rest until I 
see that face.” 

“ And now to explain why I sent for you,” said Mr. 
Fairleigh. 

And even under the monkish sleeves, Griggs could 
see that his hands were clinched fiercely. 

He leaned toward the detective, and while the rain 
pattered drearily on the roof, and the wood crackled 
fiercely, these words left his lips in a hissing whisper : 


22 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ You are in a world where I cannot be. I want to 
hire your eyes to do the work mine cannot. I want 
you to watch one man, and tell me just what his life is ; 
send me a detailed account of his actions every day, as 
far as you can see them. This is all.” 

“ Why, that is easy enough ! And your reason — am 
I to know that, too ?” 

“All in good time. Not now. You must take me 
on faith, as a gentleman, a man of honor ; one cursed 
by fate so that he must withdraw from all communica- 
tion with men, but, nevertheless, so intensely interested 
in the life of this one man that he must know all — all 
about him ; who his friends are — his sweetheart, if he 
has one — his plans — how he spends his days and 
nights. I would hire you to watch and report. Are 
you willing ?” 

“ Of course, if you pay enough,” and Griggs, the de- 
tective, chuckled shrewdly. 

“ You can set your own terms,” said the voice from 
the shadow. “ And unless they are beyond reason, I 
will not object.” 

“ And how long will this shadowing continue ?” 

“ I do not know ; perhaps for months, perhaps only 
for days, perhaps for years.” 

“ Well, I ’m your man,” said Griggs, heartily. 

“ You can commence at once ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Mr. Fairleigh arose, leaned heavily on the table, and 
so strongly did his feelings sway him that his voice 
was breathless as he said : 

“ At the Albemarle Hotel you will find the man of 
whom I speak. You are to be like his shadow. Un- 
der one guise or another you are to enter the society 
he frequents. Spare no expense — no trouble ; I will 
pay you. Become his friend if you can ; learn to 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


23 


know his heart — his secrets — his aims — his dearest de- 
sires. Can you do it ?” 

“ Try me. The matter grows interesting. Who is 
the man ?” 

“ His name is Raritan — Sidney Raritan — and he 
came from Honolulu six months ago. I have followed 
him here. Sidney Raritan ; remember the name.” 




CHAPTER III. 


Nine o’clock. 

The first act of “ A White Lie ” was over, and the 
plaudits were still echoing in Vida Hetherford’s ears, 
as, gathering up the flowing satin train of her exqui- 
site gown, she hurried into her dressing-room. 

“ The last night — the last night of triumph this 
season,” she thought, as she stood with flashing eyes, 
diamond-bright, and sweet, flushed cheeks. “ Will 
Sidney come — to night ?” 

A great change had come over young Mrs. Hether- 
ford’s life since we saw her standing at Sidney Rari- 
tan’s side, gazing with awe-stricken eyes at the dead 
body of her husband, who had made her young life a 
series of horrors. 

With her freedom came the knowledge that her 
husband had squandered his money madly, wantonly, 
and died a pauper. 

The old Hetherford mansion went down under the 
auctioneer’s hammer to the highest bidder. Poverty 
lifted its lean face to peer into the eyes of the sad- 
hearted young widow, who was left either to depend- 

[24] 




THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


25 


ence upon her own or her husband's relatives, or to 
battle with the world single-handed. 

She chose the latter. Work promised so much to 
her : a chance to escape from her own thoughts — the 
sweetness of helping herself, that suited her high- 
spirited temperament better than dependence. 

It was then that she remembered her success as an 
amateur actress before her unhappy marriage ; and 
she turned to the stage as the mine that was to yield 
her a fortune. 

And it had. For three months now she had been 
before the New York public in a difficult and dramatic 
role, and a great future was prophesied for her. Her 
beauty was talked of everywhere ; even the European 
papers had copies of her lovely, radiant, girlish face. 

And yet — all this adulation was as nothing to her 
compared with the music of one voice, the approval 
and love from one pair of eyes across the footlights, 
often close by, wherever they met. And the voice and 
eyes were those of vSidney Raritan. Oh, how Vida 
loved him ! 

That awful night when he held her little, shivering 
hand in his and led her gently in again to her dese- 
crated home was always in her memory, enshrined in 
her heart. 

He had been her champion, and through the months 
that followed there had sprung up between them a 
friendship that hovered on the borderland of love. 

“ Surely he will come to-night. He knows that I 
leave for the seashore to-morrow ; that this is the last 
night of the season.” 

And she sat down, leaning her bare arm upon her 
knee while her heart beat fast and anxiously. 

“ He loves me. I could swear it. Have not his eyes 
told me so a thousand times ? But to-night, when he 


26 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


comes, perhaps he will say the words that will trans- 
form this old world into an Eden of beauty for me. 
Sidney, I am waiting for you. I love you, my darling ! 
I love you — I love you !” 

The whispers had scarcely died away upon her crim- 
son lips before she heard a strange voice in the pas- 
sageway speaking her name. 

Her heart sank with a throb of bitterest disappoint- 
ment. This was not the lover for whom she waited, 
for whom her quivering heart cried out. 

“ Mrs. Hetherford doesn’t usually see her friends 
behind the scenes,” she heard one of the stage hands 
say. But I ’ll take your card in to her.” 

A knock sounded on her door, and a second later a 
card was handed her. 


CLYDE HASTINGS. 


A frown gathered on her pretty brow, and she gave 
her snowy, bared shoulders a shrug of impatience. 

Yes, she knew the name. This man had been an un- 
successful lover before she had married Ripley Heth- 
erford. She had never liked him ; his love had never 
moved her even to pity. 

There was something about Clyde Hastings — per- 
haps it was his oily, deceitful smile, or the^restless 
movements of his long, white fingers, or his stealthy 
way of walking — something — that had always repelled 
her. 

He had been away for two years travelling wherever 
his fancy led him, for his wealth was great. How pro- 
voking that he should return on this night of all others, 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


27 


when she was longing for a delightful talk with Sidney 
between the acts, her heart pulsing with the almost 
sure knowledge that when he did come, he would say 
something more tender than good-by.” 

“ Tell this gentleman I will see him in the green- 
room.” 

Then, as she passed out, she said to her maid : 

Marie, should Mr. Raritan come, hurry and tell 

me. 

She moved easily, lightly along the heaps of scenery 
to the small room in white and gold, where some of 
the other actresses sat chatting with their friends. 

As she entered the room, the heart of the man who 
rose to meet her commenced a nervous beating, that 
made even his bronzed, swarthy face grow pale. 

No wonder he loved her ; no wonder her face had 
haunted him over strange lands and seas, and that 
nothing had helped to make him forget her and the 
passionate love she had refused. 

She was lovely beyond words. Her golden hair and 
velvety, black eyes and her pouting, scarlet lips sent a 
fierce thrill to his heart. 

“ Vida, you are glad to see me ?” he asked in a hard, 
intense, almost bitter tone. “ Oh, say you are ! Are 
you glad ? I would give ten years of my useless life 
to hear you say it, and knew you meant it from your 
heart.” 

How strange and fierce he was, and how hungrily he 
gazed at her ! The sight made her shudder. She 
almost feared him, and unconsciously she shrank from 
him in keen repulsion. 

** An old friend returning, Mr. Hastings — ” she said, 
with her pretty, engaging manner. But he allowed her 
to go no further. He loosened her hand almost roughly 
and drew back. 


28 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ No polite greetings between us, for Heaven’s 
sake,” he said, in a maddened whisper. 

The corner where they stood was screened, and the 
hum of other voices prevented their conversation from 
being heard. 

“ Vida, I was in the South Sea Islands a month ago, 
when I heard for the first time you were free,” he said, 
his keen, gray eyes commanding hers with a power in 
them which she hated. “And what did I do ? Perhaps 
I was a fool. You alone can tell me that to-night. I 
set my face homeward, my one thought to see you, my 
one desire to tell you that time has made no difference 
with me.” 

She raised her hand as if to interrupt him, and he 
could see there was no welcome, no light in the half- 
averted face. 

“ No ; let me finish,” he burst out in smothered 
tones. “ Let me tell you all, Vida,” — and, despite her 
resistance, his hot hand grasped and held hers — “ I love 
you ! My life is in your hands ! You can make of me 
what you will, a beast or a hero. I have journeyed for 
thousands of miles just to tell you this again ; for it is 
no new story to you. One summer night two years 
ago, on the deck of Lord Gower’s yacht, I told you all 
you were to me. All that I said that night I mean 
now. You are free. I have never loved any but you. 
Will you marry me ?” 

“ I am sorry,” she said, in a whisper, shrinking from 
him. “ Oh, I am sorry to hurt you, but — ” 

A laugh that was like a dirge floated from Clyde’s 
lips, and his strong face blanched. 

“ The same old story,” he said with a sigh, and then 
an impotent fury seemed to seize him. “ Heaven ! 
Why can’t you love me ? Others have. I say it with- 
out vanity. Yes ; women no more to me than a pass- 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


29 


ing shadow have given me their hearts ; and you, a 
girl for whom I would sacrifice heaven, are like ice 
to me.” 

His head sank on his clenched hands, and a dry sob 
shook his strong frame. Oh, the intensity of his pas- 
sion for her ! It could make him sob like a woman — 
this man of nerve and will. 

“ Mr. Hastings,” she said hastily, and there was a 
touch of pity in her tone, “ I believe that no one ever 
loved me better than you do. Oh, believe me ! I feel 
keenly the honor of winning your heart. But who can 
solve the mystery of love ? You ask me in one breath 
why I cannot love you, and in the next tell me of 
women who have cared for you, for whom you could 
summon up no touch of sentiment. Doubtless, to un- 
prejudiced eyes, these women were as fair as I am, and 
quite as worthy of your love. You passed them by — 
and loved me ! It is a pitiful story, indeed, but as old 
as time. I respect you ; you have my friendship ; but, 
although you love me, I must pass you by, and — and — ” 
her voice was full of feeling as she faltered — “ and love 
another.” 

Clyde started up as if stung by a lash. 

“ You are right. Say no more. It is the bitterness 
of my fate to lose you, but I cannot be resigned. I 
cannot ! I cannot ! I hate this man who has won you, 
whoever he may be ! I hate him !” 

He grasped her hand fiercely and was gone. 

It was late when Sidney Raritan reached the 
theatre. He had been detained by important busi- 
ness, and was only in time to hand Vida to her 
carriage. 

As she saw him coming up the narrow stage-entrance 
toward her, all the coldness that had gathered around 
her yearning heart, as the hours had passed without 


30 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


bringing him, was swept away, and an exultation rose 
like wine to her brain. 

She let her eyes linger upon the soft waves of his 
amber hair above the white brow, the clear, expressive 
eyes of deepest blue contrasting so intensely with the 
bronze color of cheek and chin. 

His hand sought hers, and together they walked out 
under the stars of June, unspoken love surging in the 
heart of each. 

“ Oh, why did you not come sooner ?” Vida asked, a 
wistful light in her soft, dark eyes. ‘‘ You know I leave 
early to-morrow for Narragansett, and our good-by 
must be so hurried.” 

Sidney could scarcely control his desire to take the 
young face close to his own and kiss those tempting 
lips until he wearied from sheer delight. 

“ Vida, may I not drive home with you ?” he asked, 
and in the ordinary words there was a world of love. 

“Ah, but when I gave you 'up, I accepted Mrs. 
Forster’s invitation to drive home in her carriage, and 
she is waiting for me. I ’m sorry, and — and — when 
will I see you again ?” she continued, eagerly. 

“ In three days I ’ll follow you, if I may.” 

There was no time for more words. They were at 
the carriage door, and Mrs. Forster was there. 

For a moment they stood face to face in the light of 
the gas-lamp. 

“ Good-by,” were the words they uttered, but in 
Sidney’s eyes there was a passionate promise. 

“ I ’ll come.” 

And Vida’s throbbing heart was mirrored in the 
flashing, longing gaze that said : 

“ I ’ll wait for you.” 

A last burning handclasp and she was gone, whirled 
from his sight. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


31 


He looked after the carriage, a sudden heaviness 
weighing upon him. 

“ Not time for a word of all this passionate love that 
is torturing me ! What abominable luck ! I was a 
fool to fear to speak before. After that brute of a 
husband was dead three months, I might have told 
her, at least, secretly, how I adored her. Six months 
have passed, and still no promise binds us. Three 
days before I can see her again — an eternity. Oh, how 
I love her !” 

He hurried away from the theatre, crossed Broad- 
way, and entered Bryant Park to Fifth Avenue. 

All his thoughts, all his passionate heart-throbs 
were for Vida. Her last look haunted him, thrilled 
him, caused his pulse-beats to quicken with fer- 
vor. 

“ Ah,” he thought, she does love me ! Vida ! My 
golden-haired, dark-eyed Vida ! My life is yours.” 

Sidney Raritan.” 

It was a slow, mocking, mysterious voice that spoke 
his name. 

He wheeled around, and found himself face to face 
with Clyde Hastings. 

Clyde’s face wore a dark expression tinged with tri- 
umphant malice. 

Good heavens, Hastings, and I thought you on the 
other side of the world ! Well, old fellow, how are 
you ?” and Sidney held out his hand. 

To his amazement, Clyde pushed it fiercely aside, 
while his gray eyes narrowed and flashed danger- 
ously. 

“ We are friends no longer. When I ’m a man’s 
enemy I tell him so. I don’t strike in the dark.” 

A soft laugh of unbelief fluttered from Sidney’s lips, 
and he shrugged his shoulders. 


32 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ I say, Hastings, are you mad ? What in Heaven’s 
name have I done to you ?” 

“ vSimply this: You are Vida Hetherford’s lover. I 
have loved her in vain for two years. When she was 
a girl of sixteen I asked her to marry me. She re- 
fused. To-night I asked her again. Again she was 
like a stone — yes, cold and hard as a stone. You had 
won.” 

The bitterness of his voice was fearfully intense. 

“ 1 see no reason for discussing Mrs. Hetherford 
in this way,” replied Sidney, in a cold, forbidden 
tone. 

“ Don’t you ? Wait until you hear me through. I 
never envied you any of your luck among the mines. 
I never cared a jot when the beauties of San Francisco 
and the English girls at Honolulu flung themselves at 
your head. Fortune, the admiration of women, were 
less than nothing to me. But,” and the words were 
hoarse, “ I do envy you every glance from Vida 
Hetherford’s eyes. Had she not met you — who knows ? 
— my constancy might have touched her. I might 
have gained her for my wife. You don’t know the bit- 
terness of this thought to me. Heaven ! It is like 
wormwood poisoning my heart ! You shall not have 
her ! If you persist in marrying her — ” 

“Well ?” asked Sidney, coolly, although his blue eyes 
flashed dangerously. 

“ I ’ll ruin you,” was the answer, sharply given. 

“ May I ask how ? It isn’t in your power.” 

“ Don’t be too sure. Perhaps you don’t think I 
know one little secret of your past. You hated a man 
once, and he went away with you across the prairies. 
He never returned. It was as if the ground swallowed 
him. Where is he, Sidney Raritan ? What have you 
done with the body of Allan Love ?” 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 33 

Although Sidney paled at the horrible question, his 
gaze met his accuser’s unflinchingly. 

“ What do you mean ? You talk in riddles !” 

“ Where is Allan Love ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

There was silence for a moment, as Clyde’s hand fell 
heavily on Sidney’s shoulder. 

“ They say you murdered him,” came like an adder’s 
hiss from Hastings’s tense lips. 





CHAPTER IV. 

“They say you murdered him.” 

How those words echoed and throbbed in Sidney 
Raritan’s brain, as his horrified, angry eyes stared into 
the set, pale but triumphant face of the man who had 
only just declared himself his enemy. 

Outside the small leafy enclosure could be heard the 
sleepy city sounds of a night in June. Sparrows, half 
awake, made soft, sleepy plaints in the trees rustling 
above them ; a belated organ-grinder churned out his 
last tune ; 

Oh, love for a year, a week, a day : 

But alas for the love that loves alway !" 

The plaintive refrain surged into one voice with the 
echoing jar of a street-car down the half-deserted 
thoroughfare, and the words he had just heard seemed 
by some magic to have merged themselves in the air 
of the Ipve-song beating, burning, throbbing in Sid- 
ney’s brain. 

“ They say — they say — they say you murdered him.” 

At last the cold horror relaxed around his heart, and 
his deep-blue eyes under the dark, thick brows flashed 
with the light of defiance. 

“ It’s a lie ! A cowardly lie of your own coinage !” 
he said, in slow, contemptuous tones. 

“ You mean to say you were not the man Allan Love 
[ 34 ] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


$5 


went across the prairies with so mysteriously ? Is that 
what you mean ?” 

** I am not here to answer your questions,” said Sid- 
ney, hotly. 

** No ; but you look guilty. Every one in Honolulu 
suspects you.” 

“ Then let them prove their suspicions. I am ready.” 

The evil frown on Hastings’s face grew darker. 

“ Brave words enough. But there is one who saw 
the face of Allan Love’s companion the night the two 
men passed through San Francisco on their mysterious 
errand. That man is the murdered man’s son, Felix 
Love. Will you face him ?” 

Sidney folded his arms across his breast and paused 
for a moment before replying. Then these words 
flashed out : 

“ You said you would ruin me. Try it. I defy you !” 

You keep your secret well.” 

I have not said I had a secret.” 

“ I know you have. Do you deny there was trouble 
between you and Allan Love over the Latour mine ?” 

** No. He thought the mine worthless, and sold it 
to me for almost nothing. I made a fortune out of it, 
and he, with the injustice of sl mean, narrow nature, 
turned his hatred and disappointment on me. What 
other information can I supply you with ?” 

“ I know more than you think. Don’t be so satirical, 
my friend. I wonder what Vida Hetherford will say 
when she finds you identified as a murderer, and knows 
— that not the Latour mine, but love for a woman, was 
the motive for the crime. My bargain with you is 
this : Give up — ” 

“ I make no bargain with you !” cried Sidney, furi- 
ously. 

** Then you ’re a fool,” was the answer, in a strained. 


36 THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 

hot tone. “ For if you would give up Vida Hether- 
ford, my lips would be dumb. Seek to carry out your 
intention of marrying her, and I will expose you. 
Now do you understand ? Either way you will lose 
her. Choose the easiest.” 

After these words he turned and walked back toward 
Broadway. 

Sidney remained in the narrow, winding path look- 
ing after him. Now that he was alone, an expression 
of keenest pain darkened his eyes, his pale face became 
set and cold, he moved slowly for a few steps, and then 
sank upon one of the deserted benches in the small 
park. 

And so the whole, hideous story must come out,” 
came in a shuddering breath from his lips, as he leaned 
his head upon his clenched hand. “ I wonder where 
that scoundrel, Allan Love, is hiding ? For he has se- 
creted himself in some corner, I know. I wonder what 
are his reasons for keeping dark? Probably” — and 
here a light flashed into his eyes — “ for the very reason 
that has arisen. To throw suspicion upon me as his 
murderer. This is part of his revenge.” 

He shuddered. 

“ Oh, that night of darkness, fear and pain ! Poor 
Aloha, so bitterly wronged ! Poor child — her story- 
must it now become the property of the newspapers ? 
How I grieve for her ! How she prayed to be saved from 
shame ! Poor little soul, the shame will cling to her 
now, forever ! The story will hang like a shadow over 
her, and my silence, so long, will be of no avail.” 

Was that a step near him ? 

He turned quickly, but the path was deserted. And 
yet — and yet — he could have sworn he heard a move- 
ment. 

A clock near at hand struck twelve^ and with a 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


37 


shiver, even in the warm night, he stood up, and hur- 
ried on. 

“ Will Vida, my Vida, believe me ? Will she trust 
me through all ? Oh, my darling, to think that one 
day you may look into my eyes, your own full of doubt, 
and ask me a question which I cannot, dare not an- 
swer ! The thought drives me mad ! It must not be ! 
It must not be ! And yet, can I treat this so lightly ? 
Can I hide Aloha’s story from the world ? Can I 
clear myself ? Where is Allan Love ? What does his 
silence all these months mean ? What if by some ac- 
cident he met his death after we had parted ? What if 
another’s hand has murdered him, and the finger of 
suspicion points directly to me ?” 

As he hastened down Fifth Avenue, a shadow 
seemed walking at his side. How cold its presence 
was ! How icy its fingers that seemed pressing on his 
heart ! What warning words it whispered to him ! 

“ Fool !” it seemed to say. “ Buy your enemy’s si- 
lence at any cost. Is one girl’s love worth — your life ? 
Fate has you fast in its toils. Oh, fool, staking so 
much on one woman’s kisses ! Are there not others as 
fair for your choosing ? Let Clyde Hastings win Vida 
Hetherford if he can, and so make him your friend. 
Give Vida up. What if you love her now ? Give her 
up. You are innocent, you say ? Yes, so you are. But 
in this world, are the guilty only punished ? Ah, the 
countless innocent ones that have sat in dark cells, 
hoping to the last that light would come, the truth 
be known, their innocence proven ! Thus have they 
sat hoping — yes, to the very shadow of the gallows. 
And their last cry, ‘ I am innocent !’ has been re- 
ceived by an unbelieving world with shrugs or open 
unbelief. Beware ! The first cloud has darkened 
your path. Others are coming. Beware I” 


38 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Horrible warnings, indeed ; they chilled Sidney to 
the core of his heart. 

Vida !” he called aloud. “ Vida — my love — my 
life !” 

Ere he reached home, he had come to a determina- 
tion. 

He would follow Vida to the sea, tell her he loved 
her, and, also, that there was a barrier at present to 
their union. 

If she would wait and believe in him, well and good. 
He would have a brave heart, and set out again for the 
West, and seek to unravel the mystery of Allan Love’s 
disappearance. 

He crossed to the window, and, standing in the 
shadow of its curtains, looked out upon the sleeping 
city. 

How white and troubled his brave, handsome face 
had become ! The shadow of a story of sorrow and sin 
had been roused to-night by Clyde Hastings’s words 
and the memories hurt him bitterly. 

As he stood there he became aware that a figure 
stood in the deepest shadow of the opposite street. He 
could see the whiteness of the white, upraised face in 
the fitful gaslight. He knew he was being watched. 

“ Is this Clyde Hastings’s work } Am I not to take 
a step unmarked ?” he thought, his breath coming 
fiercely. There was more than hate in his face to- 
night. There was a bitterness and disappointment 
almost fiendish. Who knows ? Perhaps he is contem- 
plating having me disappear as mysteriously as Allan 
Love.” 

Again and again he came back to the window, and 
always the crouching figure waited beyond the shadow. 

Had he been able to see the man’s face closely, and 
recognized him, he would have been still more troubled. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


39 


for the eyes were the watchful, keen eyes of Theodore 
Griggs, the lynx of New York detectives. 

As it was, he pushed the fair hair back from his fore- 
head, and, drawing a chair up to the table, arranged 
the rose-shaded lamp, and, setting out writing materials, 
leaned his head upon his hand. 

“ I ’ll go to Vida to-morrow. But, in case there is 
any foul play thought of — in case I might meet with 
some accident and lose my life, I will leave her a silent 
defender of my honesty. I will tell her the story of 
that winter’s night in New Mexico — the last time I 
saw or spoke to Allan Love.” 




CHAPTER V. 

“June 2ist — Midnight. 

“ I am all alone in my ‘ den ’ here. From one win- 
dow Broadway stretches into space, so quiet now, al- 
though all during the day a roar rises from it as from 
a sea. 

“Just opposite, Madison Square shines whitely in 
the glow of the electric light. 

“ Cabs rattle by, lights flash from many windows. It 
is New York. 

“ But my eyes seem to look to-night upon a far dif- 
ferent scene — a scene wild, dreary, remote from civil- 
ization. 

“Before me lies the prairie: white, wind-swept, 
lonely. I seem to stand again under the midnight sky 
in New Mexico, on one of the wildest nights that ever 
visited that trackless region. 

“ I am not alone. In the stage-coach, that creaks 
and sways, there is another figure. It is a man ; and 
the small lamp which sways with every motion of the 
crazy vehicle shows his face, pallid, revengeful, 
morose, yet sullenly subdued. 

“That man is Allan Love. He accompanies me, 
because he dare not disobey. I know of dealings of 
his with poor miners he has cheated that would send 
him to jail for the best years of his life. 

“ He hates me — I know it — but I have forced him to 
come with me. Where ? He does not know. 

[40] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


41 


“ After being' driven onward in silence for a few 
moments, he suddenly lifts his head from the big fur 
collar that shields it. I see his devil-may-care, hand- 
some face — the face that, even at forty-three, has 
made such havoc with the hearts of trusting women 
who have been unfortunate enough to cross his path. 

“ Who would dream that a heart of stone was mas- 
querading under those dark, expressive eyes ? Who 
would believe that he lived only for his own pleasure, 
nor cared a jot what ruin he left in his path ? 

“ I don’t believe he loved a being in the world ex- 
cept his son Felix and the old negro who had followed 
him faithfully since babyhood — old ‘ Remus the Faith- 
ful,’ as he was called. 

“ I meet his eyes steadily, never heeding the burning 
hate in them. 

“ ‘ Where are we ?’ he asks. ‘ Are we going to ride 
all night in this stage ? Perhaps this adventure suits 
you — it doesn’t me. I ’m chilled to the bone. How 
long is this farce to last, anyway ?” 

“ ‘ It will last — for another hour,’ I answer calmly, as 
I look at my watch. 

“ ‘ Remember,’ his voice comes to me again, ‘ if you 
are tricking me — getting me into a tight place — I ’ll 
make you smart for it, Raritan.’ 

“ I answer nothing, and the rest of the journey is 
continued in silence. 

“At last, breaking upon the surging voice of the 
storm a .d the shouts of the driver to his almost ex- 
hausted horses, come other sounds and voices, and 
the stage draws up at a wooden shed that is a sort of 
apology for a station in this benighted spot. 

“ ‘ The wagon is here, boss,’ I hear some one Say at 
my shoulder, and I turn to see a yohth for whom I 
have been looking. 


42 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


^ There is another short drive,’ I say to Allan Love, 
motioning to him to precede me. 

** Not once during the journey has he followed me. 
Blows from the back are of too frequent occurrence in 
those scenes of danger. I take no pains to hide the 
revolver that my hand grasps. It is not the first time 
I have taken my life in my hands, and Allan Love 
knows it. 

** Once more we are on our way over the snow, this 
time in a heavy ox-cart. My companion utters no 
word, but I see that his eyes are glowing like coals. 
How he hates me ! And to think that once we were 
friends, close friends ! That was before I had read his 
narrow soul, before I knew that all the truth in him 
hung upon his plausible tongue. I know that to-night’s 
work will add another bit of fuel to the fire of his 
wrath, but I do not care. 

It is not of him I am thinking as I feel the snow 
stinging my face. The ache that troubles my heart 
has nothing to do with his part of this night’s 
story. 

“ Before a roughly built cabin on the banks of a 
shallow, frozen pool, the ox-cart halts. How clearly I 
seem to hear the driver’s cry, as he draws up. 

“ I pay him, tell him to wait a short distance away, 
and Allan Love and I are left alone, under the slop- 
ing shed. 

“‘Well, does it suit your highness to speak now, 
and explain this cursed mystery ? Isn’t it time to 
ring the curtain up?’ he asks, with an oath. ‘I'm 
about tired of this, I can tell you. What have you 
brought me here for ? What do you want with me ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, the time has come to speak.’ 

“ I seize my revolver more fiercely ; I look straight 
into his blazing eyes. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


43 


“ ‘ I have brought you here to-night that I may wit- 
ness your marriage with Aloha Brysdale.’ 

“ If the quiet words had been a shot from a pistol he 
could not have recoiled more suddenly nor have grown 
more deadly white. 

“ ‘ What infernal nonsense is this ?’ he asks in a voice 
choking with hate. 

“ * Don't bluster — don’t lie. The time for both is 
past,’ I reply. ‘ Believe me, they will be of no use 
here to-night. You have men to deal with now, not a 
trusting, foolish girl who believed in you, followed 
you — who gave you her heart and received from your 
hand the cup of infamy.' 

‘‘ ‘ It 's — it ’s not true !’ he gasped. ‘ I haven’t seen 
Aloha Brysdale since the night of the ball at her 
father’s house in Honolulu, more than a year ago.’ 

“ ‘ Haven’t you, indeed ? I have. You must be cu- 
rious, then, to learn something about her.’ 

“ He tries to strike the pistol from my hand, and I 
level it at him. 

‘ I ’d think no more of stopping the beating of 
your miserable heart,’ I say, ‘ than I would of crushing 
a serpent’s head under my heel. Keep silent now, and 
listen.’ 

“ I shall never forget his face as he stood there. 
Every feature seemed changed to gray stone, but his 
eyes move with a horrible restlessness, and flash like 
points of flame. 

“ ‘ As you seem forgetful of many points,’ I com- 
mence, ‘ I ’ll refresh your mind with some small de- 
tails : I ’ve known Aloha Brysdale since she was a 
laughing elf, dancing in her father’s house. I was 
her father’s friend. So were you. She grew up the 
pride of his heart, a beautiful, innocent, high-spirited 
girl as pure as a white rose. 


44 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ ‘You speak of the ball given in her father’s house 
to weleome the new English consul ? I remember 
that you danced often with her that night. The gar- 
dens were radiant aud glowing with the beauty of the 
night. I remember seeing you beside her at the foun- 
tain. You sat out many dances together, this girl of 
sixteen and you, and when the morn smiled in upon 
the tired dancers, and Aloha was curled upon a divan, 
fast asleep, like the child she was, the jasmine you had 
worn in your coat drooped among the laces on her 
breast. 

“‘Three months afterward she disappeared. You 
were in California at the time. No one suspected 
you. I alone thought it strange — yet even I, who knew 
you so well, who knew you had broken your dead 
wife’s heart — could not think you vile enough to have 
robbed your friend of his daughter, as a thief comes in 
the night. 

“‘A letter was received from Aloha. It was post- 
marked New York, and it said she had left to gain 
fame on the stage. Her father followed and could not 
find her. Of course, the letter was a lie. You know 
that. 

“ ‘ Months passed, and Aloha’s fate remained a 
mystery still. The true story was kept from society. 
Her family were supposed to know where she was. It 
was the desire of their lives to save her without letting 
the world know one tittle of her sad story. 

“ ‘ Matters were in this condition when, searching 
for a mine in this part of the country, called me here. 
Another chance made me seek this hut for safety.’ 

“ I stop. My emotion is choking me, while Allan 
Love regards me with a mocking smile. 

“ ‘ And then ?’ he asks, with a sneer. 

“ ‘ And then I found Aloha. You had cheated her — • 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


45 


tired of her. After you had told her an infamous un- 
truth that the marriage you had had performed was 
no marriage, the poor child believed you and fled from 
you. You knew the marriage was legal. Did you 
know what had become of her ? No. Did you care ? 
Not a bit. I dare say you hoped she was quietly dead. 
Oh, it is such men as you who shame the name of 
man.’ 

“ I strike on the door sharply but softly five times. 
At this signal it is opened. Allan Love, as white as 
death, stands staring into the small, shabby, firelit in- 
terior. 

“ ‘ Go in !’ I command. ‘ I ’ll follow.’ 

He has to obey, and holding his head up, while 
his guilty ^yes search the room, he waveringly 
enters. 

“ An old Indian woman sits smoking over a bright 
fire. There is a clerical-looking man in one corner, a 
tall countryman at the table, holding a glass of hot 
brandy in his hand. I know him to be the sheriff, and 
I know he is there at my bidding. 

In the dimmest corner of the room there is a 
glimpse of a poor, small bed, shielded by calico 
curtains. 

“ ‘ She is there,’ I say to Allan Love. ‘ Do you wish 
to speak to her ?’ 

“ His glance holds more venom than a serpent’s sting 
as he snarls : 

“ ‘ No !’ 

“ As the word falls from his lips a call seems to come 
from the couch. But it is not an articulate call. It is 
the weak, ailing whine of a new-born babe. 

“ He starts, and I see a crimson stain mount to his 
brow. 

“ His child ? Yes ! A startled breath quivers on his 


46 


tMfi MOtSE feY tMfi RIVER. 


lips as he moves hastily forward and pulls the curtain 
back. 

“ It is a sight to thrill even his heart, so petrified with 
sin. Aloha, as daintily fair as a lily, lies there. Her 
golden hair ripples over the pillow. Her wide, yearn- 
ing eyes are wan and dark-circled. One arm is out- 
flung on the patchwork quilt; the other is curved 
around a poor little creature that seems but the ghost 
of a babe. 

“ Will he kneel and ask pardon of the girl whose life 
he has so brutally darkened ? Will he touch with rev- 
erent fingers the infant’s waxen cheek ? 

“ There is dead silence in the room. Allan Love does 
not move, and the only expression upon his face is 
keenest defeat. 

“ ‘ Ah — you have come — at last !’ 

“ Aloha’s voice flings out that passionate, bitter 
cry — the cry of a woman who has lived in the most 
woeful sense. 

“ He does not answer. 

“ ‘ After you really marry me,’ she says, without a 
tinge of tenderness or forgiveness, ‘ go away — out of 
my life — out of my sight forever, and I will pray to 
God that I may never look upon your face again !’ 

“ Though I lived a century I shall never forget that 
scene. 

“ Allan Love’s unwilling hand is in the loose clasp 
of the girl’s white fingers, the clergyman looms up in 
the ruddy glow of the fire, the sheriff watches behind. 

I stand as one witness, a revolver in one hand; the old 
Indian servant is the other. 

“ Poor, beautiful Aloha, what a bridal ! 

“ My heart swells wdth wrath and pity all through 
that gloomy ceremony, but at last it is finished. I was 
satisfied. For I was determined to remove all doubt 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


47 


from Aloha's mind — determined that she should have 
a marriage ceremony which she could accept beyond 
the shadow of a doubt. 

“ ‘ This is a time fit for forgiveness,’ says the clergy- 
man. ‘ It is not too late to repair the ravages made in 
trust and love, as this solemn compact before God has 
repaired the wrong.’ 

“He looks from one to the other, but Aloha turns 
her face and lays her lips upon the brow of her child. 
Allan Love stands with folded arms, looking at his 
newly-made wife, then at the clergyman, at the sheriff, 
at me. At last he breaks into wild, disdainful laughter. 

“ * What a farce ! Is it quite finished ?’ and he looks 
with mock entreaty at me. ‘ Have I your permission 
to retire ?’ 

“ ‘ My part in the scene is completed,’ I answer. 

“ * Then I may conclude that mine is, too. Gentle- 
men, good night.’ 

“ He opens the door, that smile like a mocking 
devil’s still upon his lips. 

“ * Sidney Raritan, I have a word for you in private,’ 
he says, and I follow him. 

“ The wind sighs round the dilapidated house, the 
baby’s cry mingling with it eerily, as for the last time 
I stand face to face with the man who hates me. 

“‘I have only one thing to tell you. It is this: 
The time may come when our positions may be re- 
versed — ' 

“ * Never !’ I interrupt. ‘ Don’t speak of what you 
don’t understand. What do you know of honesty, of 
self-respect, of truth ? I can never stand where you 
do to-night.’ 

“ A sneer curls his lips, and again he laughs. 

“‘You think you know me well,’ he says. ‘You 
think you understand me. I tell you I shall surprise 


48 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


you yet. Oh, you are successful now. You have the 
whip-hand ; you have made me eat humble-pie to- 
night. But if at any time in the future you find your- 
self ruined, body and soul, look for the hand of Allan 
Love, and you will find that it has crumbled the edi- 
fice of your life about your ears. I don’t know how 
yet. I don’t see my way clear now, but I can wait ; 
and we are told that the waiting ones at Fate’s door 
are always successful.’ 

“ That white face, those teeth flashing in a distorted 
smile, those somber eyes, heavy with hate, they rise 
before me like a ghostly face patterned upon the air. 

“ He strides from my side toward the cart, and is 
driven away through the whirling snow. I have never 
seen him since. 

“ A fortnight later I stand at the nearest railway 
station, wishing Aloha good-by, believing she is bound 
for her father’s home, and a good woman as nurse is 
with her. Imagine my surprise when, a few days 
later, I receive this note : 

^Dear, Dear Sid: You have done for me all that one 
human being could do for another. I will never forget it, never ! 
Thank God I am married, and that my child’s portion will not 
be shame. What I have to say now will surprise you. I can- 
not go back to my father, to my old home. A great gulf yawns 
between me and the old -life. I have written to my father, and 
this time I am really going to New York, where I shall begin life 
anew for my child’s sake. I have enough money of my own to 
make me independent of the man whose hated name I bear. 
When I am settled I shall send my address to you and to my 
family. Until then good-by. 

“ ‘ God bless you, my dear, dear friend. If I yet make some- 
thing of my life, remember the credit will be to you. 

“‘Farewell. Aloha.’ 

“ This letter I received months ago. Since then I 
have heard from Aloha’s father that she had gone to 
England. One thing I am sure of, that Allan Love is 
as one absolutely dead to her. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


49 


“ And of him ! They say he is dead ! It is hinted 
that I murdered him. As solemnly as if death awaited 
me the next moment, I swear that I have never seen 
him since the night he left me in the snow outside 
Aloha’s dwelling. 

“ They may question and suspect me. To the end I 
will be silent about the events of that wild, never-to- 
be-forgotten night — for Aloha’s sake. 

“ No one dreams that she held a nameless babe to 
her heart before Allan Love was forced to call her 
wife, and no one shall ever know from me — while I 
live. But I leave this truthful record for Vida Hether- 
ford. Sidney Raritan.” 

He folded it, and sealed it in an envelope, with this 
written upon its face : 

To be opened by Vida Hetherford in case of my death or 
mysterious disappearance. Sidney Raritan.” 

It was almost three o’clock before he fell asleep, and 
his last thought was : 

“Vida — love — I shall see her to-morrow.” 




CHAPTER VI. 

And while Sidney slept, two scenes were being en- 
acted that were bound to have an influence upon his 
future life. 

In the House by the River the lights were still burn- 
ing, as they so often burned far into the gray dawn. 
For what was day or night to the man who was letting 
his life drift by there ? 

The shaded lamp in the somber study had a cheer- 
ful effect upon the dismal place, and before it Mr. 
Fairleigh sat, his shrouded hands clasping his knees. 
The whole form was covered by the friar’s robe that 
was so complete a disguise. He was waiting for some 
one and waiting impatiently. 

“ Don’t yuh want anything to eat, mas’r ?” asked old 
Remus, putting his white, woolly head in. “ I got a 
nice supper heah. There ’s waffles and a bit of boiled 
fish you ’d smack youah lips after, to say nuthin of a 
cup of Turkish coffee 3^ou ’re alwaj's in trim for.” 

“ Bring the coffee, nothing else. Perhaps Mr. Griggs 
will be hungry. Keep the rest hot for him.” 

“ All right, mas’r, but so much coffee without food, 
ain’t good for yuh — no, ’tain’t,” and mournfully shak- 
ing his head, he retreated. 

“ Three o’clock. He was to have been here by one,” 
came from Mr. Fairleigh’s lips, as, going to the win- 
dow, he drew the heavy curtain aside and looked out, 
[50] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


51 


But perhaps something important detains him — per- 
haps to leave in time to keep his appointment with me 
might make him lose some valuable information. 
Ah, that’s more important. I ought to be willing to 
wait.” 

He strode away from the window, muttering to him- 
self : 

And to think that I can never dare look in Rari- 
tan’s face again. Never dare say to him, as he stands 
before me, with every hope crushed, his life a tomb : 
‘ You see I have kept my word and ruined you.’ This 
revenge is all I live for. Oh, may it be sweet !” 

But all reflection died, and he lifted his head eagerly, 
like an animal which scents blood, as a knock sounded 
on the door. 

Into the rosy half-light came Theodore Griggs, his 
sharp eyes fastened upon the strange employer he 
served. 

“You are late ! Why? Bid — did he detain you?” 
asked Mr. Fairleigh. 

“ Not consciously,” was the grim answer. “ I didn’t 
know but that he might leave town at midnight, so I 
waited opposite his windows until I saw his light go 
out.” 

“ He is in New York — asleep at this moment, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“ Yes, I could swear to it.” 

Old Remus entered with the supper, which Mr. 
Griggs did full justice to, and when it was over and he 
had lighted a cigar, he began to talk. 

“ The man whom you suspect — or hate — or whatever 
it is — is a mighty fine-looking fellow.” 

“ Yes, he was always handsome,” came the unwilling 
reply. “ He seems happy — successful? Tell me all! 
Describe him to me ! Don’t you see how eager I am ?” 


52 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


There was something cruelly revengeful in his voice, 
and a shiver of aversion crept over Griggs. 

Then followed a recital of the events of the night. 
Griggs had indeed been a good watcher. And he had 
used his tongue, as well as his eyes and ears, for every 
one that might know anything of Sidney Raritan’s 
past, present or future had been questioned closely. 

As he sat beside the mysterious figure in the room 
lit by the wood-fire, he sketched Vida Hetherford, the 
fair, young girl Sidney loved ; he told of the return of 
Clyde Hastings, and at the name a cry of delight fell 
from Mr. Fairleigh’s lips. 

“ Clyde Hastings ? And you say that he, too, loves 
Vida Hetherford ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, he ’ll win, or make Sidney Raritan rue the 
day he ever saw his face !” he hissed. 

“ You know him, then ?” 

“Yes, I know him.” 

The conversation between Sidney and Clyde in Bry- 
ant Park, where Griggs had been listening, was also 
given. 

“ Say that again — again !” was the hoarse reply. 
And in his excitement Mr. Fairleigh laid his hand^ 
shrouded in its sleeve, upon the detective’s shoulder. 

A chill struck him. Good Heaven ! What sort of a 
creature was this man he was serving ? What was his 
secret ? There was something strange about the hand 
that rested on his shoulder. It seemed dead. No 
warmth came through the cloth. 

Griggs swayed uneasily from the touch, and the man 
moved away. 

“ Tell me again he accused Raritan of murder,” came 
the voice from beneath the cowl. ' 

“ Yes, of murdering a man named Allan Love. Rari- 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


53 


tan denied it. I think it ’s all gammon myself. Raritan 
doesn’t look like that sort.” 

This was received in silence. 

“ That ’s all,” said Griggs. “ I know that Raritan 
made some sort of an appointment with Mrs. Hether- 
ford at her carriage. Do you intend to prevent his 
marriage with her ?” 

A laugh of delight and cruelty came to the detective 
through the firelight. 

“ Not for worlds. Let him marry her ; the sooner 
the better. Oh, yes, the sooner the better,” he said, 
gloatingly. 

****** 

There was another man whose thoughts were busy 
with Sidney Raritan on this June night. 

It was very late when Clyde Hastings reached his 
hotel. His face was white and grim, marked by a 
fierce determination. 

Ashe entered his room his' valet handed him a tele- 
gram, and, after reading it, it fluttered to the ground, a 
stifled curse leaving his lips. 

“ What hard luck ! If he had arranged the whole 
matter with Fate he couldn’t have fallen ill at a more 
infernally inconvenient time. Uncle Silas always was a 
nuisance !” 

He picked up the telegram again. 

“ Uncle Silas is dying. Come at once. 

“Mina.’’ 

His cousin had sent it. Of course, he was expected 
to go, and, of course, he must go. Not from affection 
or duty, but because Uncle Silas was worth ten mil- 
lions, and Clyde wanted to see him before he died. It 
was so easy to disinherit a fellow. This is what Uncle 
Silas might do if his dutiful nephew preferred to lin- 


54 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


gev in New York instead of making his last farewells 
properly to him. The old man had a hot temper, and 
if Clyde failed to go he might be cast off with the tra- 
ditional dollar. 

“ But to leave New York now, of all times ! If the 
old man should linger on, and I be kept a prisoner in 
Virginia, who knows what might happen here V* 

He called for brandy, and sat far into the night, his 
brow frowning, his lips set tensely. 

What burning thoughts racked his heart, thoughts of 
Vida, as her imagined face, in all its seductive beauty, 
rose before him, her eyes so like black pansies, her rosy 
lips ! 

To go away and let Sidney Raritan have the field to 
himself 1 It was more than madness. And yet what 
could he do ? 

But, yes — there is one thing. He could open her 
eyes to the truth. A light leaped to his clouded face, 
and his breath came quickly. 

“ By Heaven, I ’ll try it !” 

Ere he flung himself down to try and sleep for a few 
hours, before taking the early train South, he left a 
letter addressed to Vida Hetherford, and a telegraphic 
message to Felix Love. 

The telegram said: 

“Come to New York at once. I have found your father’s 
murderer.” 

Both were to be sent in the morning. 





CHAPTER VII. 

BESIDE THE SEA. 

Vida was ready for her drive along the sands. In 
white, with just a touch of black at throat and wrists, 
a big, white hat shadowing her exquisite face, as the 
shady hats immortalized by Gainsborough shaded the 
faces of the beauties in olden time, she was indeed a 
fair picture. 

Over sea and land a soft, evening haze lay. The 
waves trembled in waning crimson. It was the hour 
for romance, for rapture, for love. 

Vida looked intently and seriously into the mirror, 
as she gave the last touches to the lace at her throat. 

“ He does love you — he does love you !” she said, the 
softest, tenderest pink rising in the satiny pallor of her 
cheek. “ You are a very lucky young woman, Mrs. 
Hetherford — very lucky. Sidney is going to reveal 
his heart to you to-night. Can you believe it ? How 
is it you can look so calm, although your pulses are 
capering like mad things ? He is coming to-night, 
sooner than he said — sooner !” And drawing a tele- 
gram from her bosom, she kissed it in a shy, intense 
way that told, better than words, just what havoc Sid- 
ney’s searching, dark-blue eyes had made with her 
heart. 

She swept from the room, her fleecy draperies send- 

[55] 


50 


THE HOUSE I3Y THE RIVER. 


ing out the faintest, subtlest odor of violets, as she 
went with her own graceful, loving eagerness down 
the stairs. 

Outside the door of the pretty cottage a small foot- 
man stood beside a light dog-cart, his hand on the 
bridle. 

“ I shall not need you to-day, Thomas,” she said, as 
she stepped in and took the reins. 

Oh, how delicious it was to trot along in the tender, 
evening light, the sea on one hand, far-reaching, mys- 
terious, cruelly beautiful, the oddly-shaped summer 
cottages, in which the lights were beginning to twin- 
kle, on the other. 

Every turn of the wheels brought her nearer to the 
man she loved so passionately, and the surge of the 
waves, the trot, trot of the horse’s feet wove them- 
selves into a haunting melody. 

“ Oh, my dear — my dear ! He is coming — he is com- 
ing !” 

But her elation sank a little as she came face to face 
with Sidney at the station. 

The ravages of unrest had left their marks upon his 
features. He was pale, and the expression in his eyes 
was intensely thoughtful as he gazed at Vida as if 
seeking to imprint upon his memory every detail of 
her charming, changeful face. 

They scarcely uttered a word beyond short, glad 
greetings, ere Vida turned her horse’s head homeward 
from the station. 

“ Are we going to your cottage now ?” asked Sidne}^, 
and the light touch of his hand upon her own sent her 
blood in stinging currents around her heart. 

“Yes ; aren’t you hungry ?” 

“ No, no ! Let us drive on by the sea for a little 
way. This delicious crimson haze will last for so long. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVEE. 


67 


When we are alone, with sea and sands and sky — there 
is something I want to tell you.” 

Her cheeks were flushed with happiness as they 
drove on together, understanding fully the yet un- 
spoken love ; and at length, as a huge bowlder came 
in sight, apart from houses, and with the lonely sea 
beating its refrain against the ragged stones, Sidney 
quietly took the reins from her. 

“Fortunately, that unused bathing-post is conve- 
nient, and I can tie the horse there, while we get out 
and walk a little. Shall we ?” 

“ Delightful !” 

It was so hard to talk when her heart was throbbing 
madly. 

They paced along the sands marked by waving lines 
as the tide encroached ; the sunset heavens, with here 
and there a great star glittering in its hush like watch- 
ful eyes : the shuddering, tenderly-tinted sea, the sil- 
vered sands, seeming all part of a beautiful dream to 
Vida, and she almost feared the words that would 
break that spell. 

She was so happy ! Perhaps never again could she 
be quite so happy. Now she was confident, peaceful. 
She knew Sidney loved her ; there was no sting, no 
jar. What if it were the delicious prelude to an 
awakening, perhaps ? For love, as she well knew, even 
love at its best, walks never free from heart-burning 
and suspense and fears. 

In the years to come there would be love, but there 
would also be small sorrows in its wake — death, per- 
haps, the anguish of necessary partings — all the trail 
of events that crowd life. 

Ah, that happy moment in the crimson hush by the 
sea ! How often in the days and nights of suspicion, 
anguish, terror, she recalled it with vain yearning; 


58 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


how often in sleep it came to her, only to make more 
bitter the real morning ! 

Sidney’s vibrant, magnetic voice, heavy with love, 
broke on her miisings and dispelled them. 

“Vida dear, is there any need of words between us 
two ? Do you not know all that is in my heart ? How 
love is welling there for you, and has almost from the 
first moment I saw your face ? I love you, Vida — I love 
you !” 

His face above her was pale and set, and not even 
the sunset light could rob it of its pallid intensity. 

Something in the dark, shadowy eyes smote her heart 
—there was more than passion here — there was agony 
—there was gloom ! 

With a yearning cry, she flung out her arms and 
they closed around his throat ; her soft cheek rested 
tenderly upon his. 

“ Sidney, my heart is yours — yours always ! You 
are my life — my world ! I have no wish, no thought, 
that is not woven with love of you !“ and her passion- 
ate whisper swept his soul as a breeze wakes music 
from a harp. 

“ My darling Vida !” he said, tenderly, drawing her 
to his breast and kissing her. 

Then he suddenly held her away and looked deeply 
into her eyes, as if he would search her very soul. 

How beautiful she was ! Oh, the light in her deep, 
dark eyes, the exquisite tenderness and changefulness 
of lips and glance ! What a fitting picture for her — 
the sobbing sea, the pink, twilight hush, the glamour of 
summer on every breeze ! 

And, oh, the anguish of the coming parting ! How 
it racked Sidney Raritan’s heart ! To be on the very 
threshold of happiness and to have to pass it by for 
weary months, perhaps for years ! 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


59 


“ There is something else, dear,” he muttered in a 
broken tone ; and across Vida’s eyes a shadow flitted. 

“ Some bad news, Sidney ? Oh, yes — yes ! I have 
felt it from the moment you stepped off the train. 
What does it mean ? Ah, my intuition was right — you 
do not look so pale, so sad, for nothing. What is it, 
dear ? Now I must share every sorrow, every grief 
you know, just as if I were your wife, as I soon 
shall be.” 

“ Soon ?” he echoed, drearily. “ Ah, no Vida, not 
soon, dear !” 

“ What do you mean ?” and her voice trembled, her 
eyes darkened. “ You are not going away, are you ? 
You don’t mean that we must be parted ? Oh, darling 
you don’t mean that ?” 

“ For awhile, yes,” and there was a pang in Sidney’s 
heart. “ I cannot tell you why, Vida. You must be- 
lieve in my truth and honor without proof, or we must 
part forever to-night. You must believe that I would 
not leave you if the matter that calls me away were 
not more important than my life.” 

“ Oh, what can it be ?” came in a little, stifled cry 
from the beautiful lips so near his own. “ Your face 
tells me that you have suffered. What can it be ? You 
did not look so the night you said good-by to me at 
the stage door. Sidney, Sidney, I cannot let you go !” 

“ There, there, darling,” and his fingers wandered 
caressingly over her hair. “ You must be brave, or I 
shall forget all for you. That must not be. I have to 
go. There is one thing I wish you would do for me. 
My sister Bebe graduates from the school she has been 
at in Ottawa very soon, and I expect her in a week or 
so. Before — before the necessity for my going away 
arose, I had intended to have her stay with me until 
we were married. But now I ask you to let her live 


60 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


under your roof until 1 return. You wull like Bebe, I 
am sure. She ’s a bit wild, but lovable, and very 
pretty. 1 shall stop and see her at the school before 1 
leave for the West. This will not trouble you too 
much ?” 

She gave him a slow, reproachful glance : her arms 
fell heavily to her sides. 

“You know it wdll not,” she said quietly, almost 
coldly, while in her heart there pulsed one burning 
thought : “I will not let him go. Anything but that. 
Oh, God help me to keep him ! If he leaves me now, 
I feel that I shall never see him again — never.” 

Sidney could see that her face had altered — it was 
like a gray mask, her features rigid. She moved 
slowly, languidly to the great, gray bowlder by the 
fretting sea, and, sinking down upon it, stretched her 
arms out and hid her face upon them. 

Sidney was beside her in a second. 

“ Vida !” he commenced ; but she interrupted his 
pleading, and gently pushed him back. 

“ No, no ! There is no use. I know what you would 
say,” she said, bitterly. “ You love me — you have won 
from me a confession of my love — and now, manlike, you 
shut me out from your heart and confidence. You tell 
me you must go away for an indefinite time, and you 
will not tell me why. You will have all the excite- 
ment of change, the eagerness in your mission, what- 
ever it is, and I will remain alone, eating my heart 
out, not knowing your interests, and in terror always 
of the unknown, the mystery surrounding you. It is 
cruel to me to do this — it is bitterly cruel, and most 
unjust,” she said, a dry sob in her voice. 

“ Don’t say that, Vida !” came in a harsh breath 
from Sidney’s lips. “ What if it is something that, if 
you knew — would make you think — no, I cannot tell 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


61 


you ! I am silent to spare you added pain, love. Be- 
lieve me, this is true. Your trust and patience are 
what I crave. I want you to believe in me, no matter 
what comes — and to wait.” 

“ I do believe in you !” she said, passionately ; “ I 
always will ; but I want your confidence. Keep your 
secret from all the rest of the world, but let me share 
it — for I should be as your very self, with no interests 
apart from you — your sorrows mine as well as your 
joys.” 




CHAPTER VIII. 

THE CRY OF A HEART. 

For a moment there was a heavy silence between 
them, while the waves sobbed almost like a human 
voice and the red in the west changed to a glow like 
that which comes from a dying fire. 

Could he tell her ? 

This was the thought that tortured Sidney Raritan. 
He felt her persuasion so strongly, her power over 
him was so great, that once let him break the silence 
about Allan Love, and might she not win from him 
the whole story of Aloha’s marriage ? 

Of this he had sworn never to speak. He had 
sworn it to his own soul, to Mr. Brysdale and to 
Aloha. 

Better silence altogether than that that old story 
should be poured even into Vida’s ear. 

He turned impulsively and took her cold hand, crush- 
ing It passionately in both of his. 

Ah, whatever the secret, no matter how deep his si- 
lence, he truly loved her. Vida saw that, as again her 
prayerful eyes met his. 

[62] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


63 


“ Ask me what questions you will, Vida, and I will 
answer those I can,” he said, tenderly. “ The secret is 
not all my own, else I would share it with you.” 

With a woman’s intuition, she knew from the ae- 
cent of her lover’s voice that somehow or other there 
was a woman in the case. She knew then, too, how 
madly jealous she could be of what she loved. Oh, 
the poignant twinge that pierced her heart like a poi- 
soned needle ! A fire seemed to mount to her brain, 
her fingers grew cold and trembled, the sunset picture 
of sky and water swam dizzily before her eyes. 

“ No,” she said, icily, as she rose and looked down 
on Sidney ; “ I shall not put you through a set of 
questions as if you were a school-boy and I your men- 
tor ! Preserve your silence intact. Go, as you have 
said. Better that than a half-hearted allegiance and 
confidence. You will not forget me more surely than 
I shall make my heart forget you !” 

“ Forget you ? Vida, are you dreaming ?” he asked, 
as he started up. 

“ No, I have been, but I am awake now. We under- 
stand each other. You love me in a sort of way — not 
altogether — not very much,” and her proud, short up- 
per lip was lifted in a light disdain. “ I want no sueh 
love. We will forget our vows, Sidney. Fortunately, 
they were not very many.” 

She started to walk past him to the dog-cart, but he 
seized her hands almost roughly, and compelled her to 
look at him. 

His level, dark brows met in a frown of pride and 
pain above his eyes flashing so sternly. He was mas- 
terful, strong and just. As he held her hands against 
her will, and looked at her with his deep, half- 
angry, wistful eyes, she loved him better than in a 
tenderer mood. 


64 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 

“ It is you who are unjust ! I will not believe you 
mean what you say ! You give me up easily, but I 
shall be stubborn and hold you to what you have said. 
You love me — me, and some day you will marry me — 
if we both live.” 

“ No ! When you return to tell me all, it will be too 
late. I am wrong, perhaps — wayward and unreason- 
able as women so often are — but if you go away now, 
I feel that I will do something foolish — desperate ! I 
might even marry some one else, just to hurt you, even 
if I crucified my own heart.” 

As the last words left her lips, she broke into pas- 
sionate sobbing, and flung herself upon his breast. 

“ Oh, Sidney, stay with me ! I need you ! Nothing 
could matter to such love as mine !” 

“ Nothing ?” he asked, slowl}^ 

“ Nothing, unless — unless — ” and her eyes darkened, 
“ you had been playing a double part all these months 
— and some other woman was bound to you,” she fal- 
tered. 

“ It is not that. I was as free as that sea-gull yon- 
der until I met you. But what if I tell you that I have 
beea charged with a treacherous, dishonorable ac- 
tion ?” 

“ Is it true ? I ask, although I know it cannot be. 
Sidney, is it true ?” 

“ It is not true.” 

“Then I care no more for it than for the fading 
marks of the tide on the sand. Oh, Sidney, don’t go 
away, filling your life and mine with unhappiness, 
all because of a false charge. Stay and face every- 
thing — anything ! Since you are innocent, the keenest 
stabs of your enemy must be futile. What guilt might 
touch you, let it touch me. Should that ever occur, 
perhaps then you might tell me all, and I could help 






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THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 6o 

you. Oh, yes, a woman can often do more in search- 
ing and unraveling knotty points than the sagest law- 
yer in the world.” 

Her enthusiasm, her flashing eyes, the warmth of 
her arms, now close around his neck, and the knowl- 
edge that after all his mission might be fruitless, made 
him hesitate. 

What if she spoke truly, and it would be better to 
rely firmly upon his innocence, and trust to chance to 
right him ? 

“Oh, Vida, you break down all my resolutions by a 
glance — a word. I long to stay with you, as you ask, 
I love you so — I do love you so,” he said, in tones of 
deep, repressed passion, as he strained her suddenly to 
him and kissed her with a warmth and longing that 
thrilled her to the core of her heart. “ Are you will- 
ing, dear, to take me on ‘faith? Will you never re- 
gret it ?’!_ 

“ Never,” she said, in a low, thrilling whisper. “ I 
know my heart. It is yours, Sidney. I love you. I 
can say no more.” 

His saddened eyes brightened and a new enthusi- 
asm flashed from them. 

“ Then I shall throw a lance at fate. If I stay in 
New York and wait until your year of mourning is 
up, God only knows what horrid plans may not be 
afoot to separate us. Will you marry me soon and 
give a shrug to conventionalities ?” 

“ Oh whenever you say ! Anything — but do not 
think again of leaving me !” she whispered. 

“ To-night ?” asked Sidney, and he waited breath- 
lessly for her answer. “ To-night, and no one to know 
of our intention until the knot is firmly tied ? Will 
you, darling, will you ?” 

“ To-night,” she said ; and surely it was more than 


66 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


that last streak of gold plunging for a farewell glance 
from a purple cloud that softened the velvety deeps 
of her dark eyes. 

She felt no fear of the future. The mystery Sidney 
had hinted at seemed less than a shadow to her. He 
would he hers, she his, and, loving each other as 
they did, it would be strange indeed if they could not 
defy the traducers and accusers who might try to 
part them. 

A cozy, delightful dinner, followed at 

the bride’s cottage, the light from the shaded candles 
falling on her lovely face and making her cheeks out- 
rival the American beauty-roses heaped in the middle, 
her lips the scarlet buds that fringed it. She was ador- 
able, queenly ; and as he gazed at her Sidney forgot 
the shadow that lay over the fate of Allan Love, who, 
according to report, was last seen alive with him — for- 
got Clyde Hastings and his burning threats. 

It was to be their wedding night, and the suddenness 
of it, the informality of it, was far more delightful 
to him than any ceremony arranged on conventional 
plans. 

“ Get ready at once, darling,” Sidney whispered as 
they left the table. 

Would Vida’s heart ever thrill again as it did that 
night when she stood before her mirror, arraying her- 
self for her sudden bridal ? 

Her eyes were dark wells of light, made shadowy 
and velvety by her great happiness. Her lips were 
like fresh rose-leaves. 

She should wear no black to-night — not the smallest 
touch. Adieu to those false signs of a woe she never 
felt, and, with them, adieu to every memory of the bit- 
ter past. 

Sidney’s wife ! Oh, how she loved him ! 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


67 


She thought of the snowy winter night when he had 
found her, maddened by fear and pain, shuddering at 
her own door — a shivering outcast where she should 
have been unquestioned mistress, She thought of his 
dear eyes, his voice, and her heart throbbed with a 
rapture beyond words. He had saved her from de- 
spair that night, perhaps from death, that she might 
love him. 

I loved him then,” she thought, as she fastened a 
spray of white hyacinths at her throat — “ I loved him 
then, and will forever. He talks of enemies, of secrets. 
I know he is true ; so what matters the rest ? I would 
die for him.” 

Sidney was waiting in the richly toned square hall 
for her, and surely there never was aught more lovely 
than Vida as she came toward him down the stairs in 
her spotless white draperies. 

“ A letter for you, madame,” said a pretty French 
maid, appearing with one upon a salver. 

As Vida lifted it carelessly, and tore the edge of the 
envelope, something familiar in the handwriting caught 
Sidney’s eye. 

He laid his hand lightly on Vida’s and she looked at 
him, faintly surprised. 

Surely his face was paler. 

“ Do you know the writing ?” he asked, and his voice 
was dry. 

“ Why, let me see. No, I can’t say I do,” she said 
lightly. 

I do,” he answered, and his hand tightened its hold 
on hers. 

“ Well, what of it, Sidney ? Who is it from ?” 

Vida, do not read that letter— now,” he said, draw- 
ing her to him and looking deeply into her eyes. 

“ Why not ?” 


68 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


‘‘I cannot tell you. You see, dear, this is the first 
time I must ask you to trust me blindly. There may 
be others. I did not dream I should have to make 
that request so soon — but I must. Vida, do you love 
me enough — can you— may I pray of you to give me 
that letter without your having read one word of it ?” 
he asked, and there was something proudly appealing 
in his glance. 

She hesitated, a little frown on her white brow, a look 
of pain deepening in her eyes. 

“ Must this mystery stand between us, Sidney ? May 
I not know all ?” she prayed. 

“ Remember your words on the beach. You said 
you would take me on faith. I know who has written 
that letter to you. I can almost tell what is in it. It 
is a lie — a cruel, devilish, despicable lie from beginning 
to end. Read it, if yon like ; but if you trust me as 
you said you did — ” 

“ Yes, Sidney ; if I loved you what would I do ?” she 
asked, suddenly softened again by the voice she could 
not resist. 

“ You would refuse to read it — and believe in me.” 

At the words she tore the letter into a hundred 
pieces and, going to the window, flung them out sea- 
ward. The wind caught them up and carried them 
out to the ocean wastes, like a flotilla of white butter- 
flies. 

So Clyde Hastings’s stabs at a man’s honor failed 
miserably. His journey to Virginia would not have 
been so pleasant could he have witnessed that 
short scene between love and distrust in Vida’s cot- 
tage. 

And, oh, that drive under the moonlit sky, along a 
beach that was surely made of molten silver ! 

What words of love and promises of faith and hap- 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


69 


piness were whispered, as Vida Hetherford drove on 
by her lover’s side ! 

Oh, night of witchery and delight, ending fitly in the 
sweet, rapturous, solemn scene in the clergyman’s tiny 
parlor, where they two, alone, knelt hand in hand and 
heard the solemn, sweet words : 

“ Until death do ye part !” 

, Life holds many happy moments, but never such a 
moment as this. 




CHAPTER IX. 

BEB^. 


“ Antoine !” 

It was Clyde Hastings who spoke, and his valet ap- 
peared, bowing obsequiously. 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

** You are sure,” his master asked, with a frown, 
“ that these are all the letters which have come for me 
during my absence ?” and he tossed aside a heap of bills 
and invitations. 

“That is all, positively, monsieur.” 

“ No visitors other than these ?” and he glanced 
contemptuouvsly at a number of cards on the salver. 

“ None others, monsieur.” 

The frown deepened on Clyde Hastings’s brow. 

“Think again, Antoine. Was there no — lady — here 
to see me while I was away?” he asked, slowly. 

“ Not one, monsieur. I am positive.” 

“ You can go. Yet — wait. Should a gentleman call 
here this morning and give you the name * Mr. Felix 
Love,’ show him in here without waiting, and after 
that say I am not at home, no matter who calls.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ So Vida has paid no attention to my letter ?” Clyde 
said aloud, when he was alone. “ Surely what I said 
must have awakened her curiosity. She can’t be such 

[70] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


71 


a fool as not to know that I would not dare accuse her 
lover of murder unless I had good proof of what I say." 

There was a settled, fierce thirsting for revenge in 
the expression of his eyes as he strolled to the window 
and looked down at the glittering vista of Fifth Av- 
enue, sparkling in the early sunlight of that vivid July 
morning. 

His heart was aflame with love for Vida, the woman 
who could look so coldly on him, while her heart 
thrilled so gladly to another man’s touch. 

What if she had dared to let his accusations and 
warning pass unheeded ? What if his poisoned shafts 
had failed ? 

“ If she defies me, and if Sidney Raritan holds her 
confidence in spite of all, I ’ll make her heart bleed for 
it !’’ he muttered. 

The forced inactivity of the summer days in town 
was maddening to Clyde Hastings. He had been back 
from Virginia a week, and no amount of questioning 
or search could tell him what had become of either 
Sidney Raritan or Vida. 

The cottage at Narragan sett was closed for the time 
being. None of the society papers had an inkling of 
their movements, nor had they taken any of their 
friends into their confidence. 

“ It looks queer — very !’’ he mused. “ Perhaps she 
has determined to spend this summer romancing with 
him without letting him dream that I have warned 
her, and when she receives news of my return, from 
the papers, will come and face me, to make me sub- 
stantiate my claims. Good ! I wish I could feel posi- 
tive of this — and, oh, that Felix Love would come ! He 
is to be my trump card. He is youngr-I ’ll mold him 
— I ’ll bend him to my will — I ’ll fill his mind with 
doubts — I ’ll make him the weapon in my hand !’’ 


72 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Mr. Felix Love !” 

It was Antoine who spoke, and Clyde turned hastily, 
a deep stain of excitement mounting his dark cheek. 

Yes, there was Felix Love, the big, handsome, clear- 
eyed fellow, whose manly figure and air made him look 
somewhat older than his twenty-two years. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Hastings !’' and he gripped 
Clyde’s hand fiercely. “Your telegram was sent after 
me from San Francisco to Canada. I came as soon as 
I could.” 

As he spoke he sank into a chair and a troubled, 
weary expression passed over his handsome face. 

“ Your news wa*s very sad. It came like a blow to 
me !” he said in a choked voice. “You see, somehow 
or other, I always fancied that my father’s disappear- 
ance would be explained — that he was not really dead. 
But you say you have found the murderer ? JV/io 
is he r* 

The last question was only an eager burning, breath. 
His eyes of dark hazel flashed with the fire and deter- 
mination of a young judge. He was clean-shaven, and 
the lines of his mouth visibly hardened. 

“ He loved his father, scamp though he was,” thought 
Hastings, with a delighted heart-throb. “ He ’ll make 
a good enemy.” 

After that he started to win Felix Love’s confidence 
and liking. 

“You must be tired. Let’s have some iced wine, 
and then we ’ll talk the matter over,” he said, as he 
went out of the room to speak to Antoine. 

The moment. Felix was left alone, he started up and 
commenced to pace restlessly to and fro. 

“ What a brute I am to be able to think of love or a 
girl’s face at such a time as this, when I am to learn 
something of my poor father’s fate — I am to stand face 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


73 


to face with the assassin who struck him down — and 
still, I can think of her !” 

Over his handsome, manly face a faint color 
spread, and he drew a small photograph from his 
pocket. 

No need to ask if he loved the original of it. His 
eyes mirrored his heart’s devotion, and his strong, 
slender hand trembled as he held the piece of paste- 
board where the light fell upon it. 

It was the face of a very young girl, laughing, saucy, 
dimpled, the eyes flashing a pretty defiance from be- 
neath the shadowy brim of a big, rose-trimmed hat. 

One glance at it told that she was a little coquette — a 
creature of sunshine, laughter, and pretty, teasing ways. 

Underneath it, in a big, da‘shing hand, was penned 
one word : “ Bebe.” 

Felix’s dark eyes rested as questioningly on that 
name as on the riant face. 

“ Who are you, Bebe ? Little tyrant ! Beautiful, 
teasing mystery — will I never see you again ? To think 
that I know no more about you than your first name 
and the fact that you are somewhere in New York. 
Bebe ! What a pretty name ! I love it — and I love 
you, too.” 

“ Who is she, Felix ?” asked Hastings at his shoulder. 

He had approached so noiselessly that the young 
fellow had no idea of his having re-entered the room. 

“ There, don’t be offended — I didn’t mean to pry into 
your secrets. It was admiration that overmastered 
me and he laid his hand on Felix’s arm. 

At the last words, uttered so emphatically, Felix felt 
his heart glow. 

“ She is lovely — isn’t she ?” he cried. “ Here, Mr. 
Hastings, I ’ll let you see the picture — I don’t mind it. 
And perhaps you know her ?” 


74 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Clyde looked long into the pictured, girlish face. 

“ I don’t know her. Who is she ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Amazing ! Where did you find the picture ?” asked 
Clyde in surprise. 

“ Oh, it ’s just this way : I didn’t find the picture at 
all. This young lady gave it to me,” and Felix flung 
himself into a chair. “We were fellow-travellers 
through Canada. We were both coming to New York. 
There was an accident, and I managed to be able to 
render her some assistance. If it hadn’t been for that de- 
lay, I’d have been here a week ago. We were put up 
at the same farmhouse to recover from the shock. 
Her injuries were very slight, but I got a sprained foot.” 

“ I see,” and Clyde smiled as he handed the iced 
champagne to Felix. “You got to know each other, 
fell in love — ” 

“ / did ! The pretty stranger seemed to like me, and to 
my many prayers that I might know her name and some 
day call myself her friend, she left me on the morning 
of her departure this pretty picture and a note, saying 
we would in all probability meet in New York. There 
you are ! There ’s the whole story. She left a few 
days before I did. Oh, it was maddening not to be 
able to follow her, but the doctor forbade it. I am 
ashamed of myself, Mr. Hastings, but I almost forgot 
the terrible mission which called me to New York in 
my sudden infatuation of her.” 

He started up and held out his hand to Clyde. All 
the softness and tenderness had gone from his face. 
The eyes were flashing now as revengefully as Othello’s, 
his breath came in quick, choked gasps. 

“ But I am going to make amends for my weakness. 
Do not fancy me thinking only of love ; do not fancy 
me unfit for the work of bringing the murderer of my 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


75 


father to justice.” And Felix’s clear voice thrilled 
with passion and grief. “ Why, there never was a 
kinder father in the world than mine was to me. My 
mother died when I was a little chap. My father was 
all to me. I have heard people say that he was wicked, 
and I know he had many enemies ; but he loved me, 
and I ’m going to avenge his death. Now tell me who 
is the man, and what proofs have you ?” 

“ Good !” cried Hastings. “ 1 see that you are the 
right sort. But I ’m not ready to tell you all yet.” 

“ What do you mean ? Let there be no delay, for 
heaven’s sake. I have always suspected Sidney Rari- 
tan. Is he the man ?” 

Clyde tried to hide the sudden joy in his cold, gray 
eyes. 

“ Why ?” was all he said. 

“ Well, he and my father were not such good friends 
toward the latter part of their acquaintance as they 
were in the beginning. Then the night Raritan reached 
San Francisco from Honolulu my dad was with him. I 
was then living with my cousins in San Francisco, 
and, quite by accident, I met dad with Mr. Raritan. 
They were on their way to the railway station, and 
seemed trying to get away without being recognized. 
I asked my father where he was going : ‘To the plains. 
See you soon.’ These were the last words I overheard 
from his lips. Mr. Raritan was on ahead by this time. 
I saw him turn and wait for my father. I only had a 
glimpse of his face.” 

“ Yet you could swear it was he ?” And Clyde leaned 
across the table eagerly, his face sharpened by his 
longing for revenge. 

Yes, I could swear it. There is not the slightest 
shadow of a doubt.” 

“ Then there is nothing more to be said. Let him 


76 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


be arrested on suspicion. As you say, you have waited 
too long, hoping to hear news of your father.” And 
Clyde brought his fist down on the table. “ Now is the 
time to act.” 

“ Then the man you, too, had in mind is Raritan ?” 
asked Felix, quickly. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you have discovered some conclusive proof 
against him ?” 

“ Well, nothing positive,” and Clyde did not look 
into the frank eyes before him. “ Sidney Raritan hated 
your father ; there was some trouble about a woman. 
That much I have learned. He was the last man seen 
with your father. Don’t you think it ’s time to arrest 
him on suspicion ? That ’s the only way the mystery 
can be unraveled.” 

“ That ’s true,” cried Felix. “ Where is he now ?” 

“ I don’t know, but I ’ll find out very soon. Think 
over what I have said and come here to-morrow. By 
that time I ’ll have news of some sort, I ’m sure.” 

A few moments later Felix took his departure. His 
mind was burning, his thoughts were in a whirl. To 
think of his father as really dead — murdered in some 
out-of-the-way ravine, or his body hidden in some still, 
deep brook — filled his heart with pain. 

“ Is he dead ? Can he be dead ? Dad, dad, some- 
how I cannot feel that I shall never see you again ! 
And yet, all efforts to win a response from you have 
been in vain. Advertisements, personals, clues fol- 
lowed — all resulted in nothing !” he thought, as he 
walked down the sunny avenue toward the rooms he 
had taken. 

“ Bah ! Let me not hesitate any longer. Let me 
not dream that to-day or to-morrow or in a week he 
will suddenly come back. I am not worthy to be called 


The house bv the river. 


77 


his son if I do not give over hoping and now seek to 
punish his murderer. Raritan shall tell what he knows, 
and tell it before a jury, by heaven !” 

“ Mr. Love !” 

What soft whisper was that, thrilling him to the very 
depths of his heart ? All thoughts of revenge faded 
away, and instead a flood of love subdued and almost 
overpowered him. Was it a dream, or did he see be- 
fore his eyes the witching face that had enthralled his 
soul and his senses ? 

“Yes, it is I — Bebe," she laughed, and how pretty 
and aristocratic she looked in the pearly summer silk 
and big rustic hat, her blue eyes like violets blooming 
in a cool shadow. 

He seized her little hand, and surely she could read 
the love in his voice. 

“ I Ve been hoping to meet you every moment since 
you ran away. May I walk on with you ?” he asked 
eagerly. 

“ No, for I ran out of Delmonico’s when I saw you. 
Oh, every one there was scandalized when I jumped 
up. But I couldn’t help it, you looked so — so grumpy. 
Come in. I was lunching there with my brother and 
his — but there, that’s a secret. I promised not to tell. 
Come in, come in ; they must thank you for all you did 
for me.** 

Felix followed her tripping feet gladly, but as they 
were about to turn into the famous restaurant, he 
caught sight of a face at the window, and growing as 
white as the hyacinth in his coat, he fell back a step, 
his eyes flashing, his mouth hardening into set lines. 

“ Sidney Raritan !" 

The name came in a breath, and he was scarcely 
aware of having spoken until Bebd stepped back and 
looked at him in surprise. 


7S 


The house by the river. 


“ Oh,” and the dimples came out in her cheeks, yoU 
know my brother !” 

For a moment Felix seemed stricken dumb ; then a 
questioning- horror overspread his face, a look that 
made the light-hearted girl grow cold with a fear for 
something ghastly and as yet unknown. 

“ Your brother ?” came at last from Felix’s whitened 
lips. “ Is he your brother ?” 

“ Yes : my name is Bebe Raritan.” 





CHAPTER X. 

“ I SUSPECTED YOU.” 

Everything- seemed to go topsy-turvy, as Felix heard 
that name from the red, smiling lips of the pretty girl 
beside him. 

Bebe Raritan !” 

Those few syllables, simple and sweet-sounding — 
how they crashed through the dainty fabric of the 
dream he had been cherishing — how they chilled his 
heart and weighed upon his spirit ! 

Raritan ! Was it not the name he was sworn to 
hate ? Had he not pledged himself, only a little while 
before, to cover it with ignominy ? 

His impulsive, young heart knew in that one bitter 
moment what hopelessness and disillusion meant ; and 
Bebe, glancing at him, was startled by the sudden ex- 
pression of sadness and despair that glanced at her 
from his eyes. 

But she thrust the feeling from her, and entered Del- 
monico’s doorway. 

“ Come, don’t stand there like a goose !” she said, 
making a pretty little face. “ Sid ’s the dearest soul, 
and he ’ll want to thank you lots — I know he will.” 

There was nothing to do but follow, and this Felix 
did like one in a dream. 

At a corner table, commanding a view of the sunlit 
avenue, he saw the man whom he suspected of a 

[ 79 ] 


80 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


cowardly crime. The sunshine played upon his face, 
and by very force of contrast he recalled where he had 
last seen it on that winter night in San Francisco, 
when in the gleam of the crude gaslight he had caught 
a glimpse of the stern, handsome features, the set 
mouth, the clear eyes, dark with an indomitable re- 
solve. 

“ Can it be true ? There is no mark of Cain in 
that face. And yet the mystery of that night, my 
father’s disappearance, Raritan’s silence and sudden 
journey East ! Is there nothing in all this ? But, oh, 
the bitterness of it that he should be her brother — her 
brother !” 

As if they came out of a maze that muffled his 
senses, he heard Bebe’s tones tell the story of their 
meeting in Canada, heard Vida’s soft voice thanking 
him ; but Sidney Raritan sat silent, and Felix sudden- 
ly became aware that his eyes were fastened on him as 
if he would read his very soul. 

“ Sid, why don’t you tell him how brave and good 
he was ?” Bebd whispered, her cheeks glowing like a 
wild rose, her blue eyes flashing with resentment at 
her unexplained silence. “ Tell him what — er — what 
a hrick he was ! I might have been killed only for 
him. How can you sit there and not say a word ?” 

“ I do thank Mr. Love for any kindness and care he 
showed my little sister,” and Sidney’s voice was cool, 
courteous, perfectly self-possessed. “ I thank him 
very much. By the way, Mr. Felix Love remembers 
that we have met casually now and then in the West ?” 
Sidney asked, determined to learn something of the 
attitude his enemy’s son held toward him. 

“ Yes, I remember you very well,” said Felix ; and 
under the healthy tan of his skin both Bebe and Vida 
could see how pale he had become. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


81 


A reckless daring entered Sidney’s heart, and every 
nerve thrilled with anger. 

So this young fool suspects me, too, does he ? He 
is probably Hastings’s cat’s-paw — has come on at 
his bidding to ferret out something he can use against 
me.” 

A sarcastic smile curled his lip as he rose and lightly 
picked up his gloves. 

“ I believe I last saw you in San Francisco — let me 
see — one night, a snowy night, about a year or so ago, 
I think. Yes ; of course, I remember now. I was with 
your father, was I not ?” 

“Yes,” came in a hoarse breath from Felix’s lips, 
and now all the hatred he had felt but a little while 
before for Sidney rushed over his heart afresh. 

He dared speak of that night ? He dared smile as he 
flung that subtle challenge in his face ? 

His heart seemed to swell to bursting ; and only the 
memory of where he was, and that Bebe’s soft, seduc- 
tively deep blue eyes were fastened upon him, kept 
him from saying something to express the storm in his 
soul. 

“ Oh, yes ?” and still the provoking smile deepened 
on Sidney’s lips. “ Er — how is your father, by the 
way ?” 

Vida saw the young man’s eyes flash ; his breath 
came in a labored, repressed way, and when he spoke 
his voice was ominous, although the words he uttered 
were commonplace enough. 

“ Don’t you know ?” 

“Haven’t an idea ! How should I ?” 

“ Then I cannot tell you, as I have not seen my 
father — lately'' 

By this time Vida had risen, and was looking in- 
tently from Sidney to this new acquaintance. She dimly 


82 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


felt that there was a suggestion in their speech she did 
not understand. 

Her beautiful face was creamy in its pallor, her vel- 
vety dark eyes filled with a burning unrest. 

“ I wonder who he is — this young stranger — Felix 
Love ? I must remember that name ! He is hand- 
some, and all his struggles cannot hide from me that 
he is suffering from some inward excitement. I must 
watch and solve this mystery. After all, who should 
know better than I the details of my husband’s life ? 
It is cruel to me — cruel !” she thought. “ I see him 
often in deep thought, pale, preoccupied. A chance 
mention of Clyde Hastings’s name makes him start 
and frown ; and now it is evident that this young 
man from the West knows something of Sidney’s past 
that burns like smoldering embers in the heart of 
each.” 

A light touch on her arm made her turn, and she 
saw Bebe, her pretty face aglow, her ripe lips parted 
eagerly. 

“ Ask him to call, Vida. I can see that Sid won’t, 
but you must, for — for I like him. Ask him to call !” 

As they turned to leave the restaurant, Vida, look- 
ing very queenly in her lustrous, pale-gray draperies, 
held out her daintily-gloved hand to Felix. 

“We are stopping at Mr. Raritan’s old family place 
— Applethorpe, on the Bronx, quite in the city’s limits. 
You must come and see us, Mr. Love, when you have 
the time or inclination, or both.” 

“ I shall be charmed,” poor Felix muttered, while a 
ghastly sorrow tugged at his warm heart and made 
him avoid meeting Bebe’s eyes. 

“ Be sure you come,” Bebd whispered, and her laugh- 
ing face, so like one of Greuze’s fair heads, was lifted 
near his own. “ Don’t you remember at the farmhouse 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


83 


we said we thought we could be chums ? Be sure you 
come — soon^ 

“Thank you — thank you so much,” was all poor 
Felix could say, as he wrung her hands so that the 
pretty rings she wore made small indentations on her 
fingers ; but she didn’t mind that. No, indeed ; she 
liked the stinging pain his impassioned grasp had left 
— it was a reminder of him that kept him near her for 
a good fifteen minutes afterward. 

In the meanwhile, Sidney, pale and icily polite in his 
demeanor, walked by the side of the man he knew was 
accusing him in his heart. 

“ Mr. Love,” he said, at last, “ I want to put Mrs. 
Raritan and my sister in the carriage and have a talk 
with you. Is it convenient for you ? Or perhaps you 
have an engagement ?” 

“ It is quite convenient for me,” said Felix, coldly. 

So Vida and Bebe returned to Applethorpe alone, 
and Sidney led the way to his club, only a few blocks 
distant. 

The place was almost deserted on this summer after- 
noon, and they found a room entirely to themselves. 

In the shaded place, his face as clear-cut as marble, 
his eyes burning, Sidney turned slowly and looked 
Felix Love over from head to foot. 

“ There are just a few things I want to say to you, if 
you will have the patience to listen. I don’t suppose 
you ’ll take one of my cigars, by the way ?” asked 
Sidney. 

“No, I thank you,” was Felix's reply, as he leaned 
moodily against the mantel, thinking not of this man 
he had been told was a murderer, and whom he him- 
self suspected, not of his father’s fate, strange though 
it was, not of Clyde Hastings and the compact they had 
entered into, but of a girl’s face, that somehow had 


84 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


come to mean to him the whole world and more. Such 
a winsome, merry, perfect face ! It seemed retreating 
farther and farther into the shadows that surrounded 
his life, and far away in a lurid gloom where the knell 
of murder sounded — he saw it no more. 

Bebe must be lost to him ! Fate had said so. A dark 
story of treachery and death yawned between them. 
He had come to accuse her brother, and that justice 
meant that never might he stand with Bebd's hands in 
his and read the tender confession of her answering 
love in her eyes. 

‘‘ Will you answer a few questions ?” asked Sidney, as 
he lit a cigar, and then let its spark die out without once 
raising it to his lips. “ Or, at least, I may presume 
that if you answer them at all, you will speak truly 

“ I never lie !” flashed from Felix, as he flung up his 
head, a stain of color mounting to his brow. 

“ The emphasis on the pronoun is an insinuation that 
I do, I suppose ?” 

“ I can only speak for myself. I don’t answer for any 
other man,” was the independent answer. 

“ Then will you kindly answer these questions, as 
they are of importance to both of us ? Clyde Hastings 
sent for you, did he not ?” asked Sidney, quietly. 

“ Yes, he did.” 

Before receiving that message from him, had you 
suspected me of any knowledge of your father’s where- 
abouts ?” 

For a moment Felix was silent, but his answer came 
coolly, emphatically : 

“ I suspected you.” 

A slight contraction passed over Sidney’s brow. 

“ And you do still, I suppose ?” 

“ Nothing has occurred to make me alter that opin- 
ion. Still, I have no positive proof. I only know that 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


85 


your mysterious errand with my father, which has 
never been explained, seems strange. If you are an 
honest man, why don’t you speak out ?” cried Felix, 
suddenly forgetting discretion, and letting his temper, 
which was a hot one, get the better of him. “ Why 
don’t you tell where you went that night, and why ?” 

“ My young friend,” said Sidney, quietly, suddenly 
rising and leaning forward across the table that divid- 
ed them, “ I now have your whole opinion of the mat- 
ter. I know where to place you. I know enough to 
make it necessary for me to tell you that if you should 
dare take advantage of the invitation innocently given 
by my wife and sister this afternoon, I would have you 
shown the door ! Never dare to speak to my sister — 
never dare to touch her hand while you have this 
opinion of me. You have chosen to jump at a con- 
clusion which I shall consider too absurd to need a de- 
nial. As for my movements on' that night or any 
other, I don’t choose to explain them to you or any- 
body else who comes to me demanding an explana- 
tion as a right. Do you quite understand me, Mr. 
Love ?” 

Felix looked into the intense, glowing eyes before 
him, his own face strained and pale. 

“ You have made yourself reasonably plain, I think. 
You little know me if you think I would have crossed 
your threshold or accepted any hospitality from you. 
As for your sister — your sister — I shall try to forget 
that we ever met.” 

How hard it was to choke down the dry sob that 
came with the words. Try to forget Bebd ! What a 
task he had set himself — what a bitter, hopeless task ! 

“ See that you do,” was Sidney’s grim answer ; and a 
moment later, after a cool “good afternoon,” Felix 
went away. 


86 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


For a little while Sidney sat there, the unlit cigar 
between his fingers, his face troubled, his lips set in a 
stern, contemptuous expression. 

“ So the war has begun. I know Hastings of old. 
What will he do ?‘ What can he do ? Besmear me in 
the minds of my friends by his gossip ? Suspect me ? 
Set the police to watch me ? Well, let him^ My life 
will bear inspection. Until they find Allan Love's 
body, there can be no charge of murder. In case he 
has been made away with, I suppose my part of that 
wretched night’s business would bring me under the 
suspicion of the law.” 

He started up and commenced to pace up and down 
the room. 

“ I sha’n’t bother myself, however. I shall keep that 
night’s work secret and safe, and just live my daily 
life as if I were not an interesting figure watched by a 
number of amateur detectives. Bah for them all ! 
Silence still — for a woman’s sake — for a foolish, loving, 
unhappy little woman’s sake. And now I ’m off to put 
a notice of my marriage to Vida in the papers. We ’ve 
kept it quiet long enough. What a bitter dose that 
news will be for Hastings to swallow !” 




CHAPTER XL 

AT APPLETHORPE. 

It was more than a week later ; a breezy, August 
afternoon, that presaged a cool, delightful night. The 
table was set for afternoon tea in the pretty drawing- 
room at Applethorpe. 

Bebe, among the crape pillows, heaped on the low, 
bamboo couch, was idly swinging her dainty slippered 
foot to and fro as she watched Vida, so pretty in her 
cool, white India silk dress, presiding over the spirit- 
lamp on the oval lace-draped table. 

“ It’s just this way,” said Bebe, her pretty forehead 
gathered in a frown, her blue eyes full of discontent, 
her soft, curling, gold-brown hair ruffled by the con- 
stant movement of her uneasy head : “ He doesn’t 

like me, and he doesn’t want to know me. My self- 
esteem tells me he must be a fool to feel this way, as I 
flatter myself I am worth knowing ; but he doesn’t 
mean to come. Any one with half an eye can see that.” 

Vida went to her side with a little gold-and-white 
cup of fragrant Pekoe, in which a bit of lemon in the 
shape of a half-moon floated, and, smiling in her 
flushed face, said, merrily : 

Well, my dear, I have a pair of very good, clear- 
sighted eyes, and I don’t see that at all.” 


[87] 


88 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Then why hasn’t he come ?” demanded Bebe, as if 
that question settled the whole matter. 

“ Perhaps he’s out of town.” 

“Well, he shouldn’t have gone! If ever a man 
acted as if he were smitten on a girl, that man was 
Felix Love. Why, when we were at the farmhouse 
he scarcely took his eyes off my face ; talked of the 
days when we were to be chums — know each other 
so well ; said there was an affinity between us — and — 
and — that he could feel it — and all that rot,” burst out 
Bebe, in a mixture of regret and disgust. “ And when 
we fairly knock our heads together on Fifth Avenue, 
and he has a chance of meeting you and Sid, gets an 
invitation to call, nearly wrings my hand off, looks 
unutterable things, he simply disappears — doesn’t 
come near me ! He hasn’t even been in the neighbor- 
hood !” 

“ Why, how do you know that ?” and Vida lifted her 
level, Greek brows, while her eyes filled with quizzical 
questioning. “Now, how on. earth can you make the 
sweeping assertion that Mr. Love has not been in this 
neighborhood ? Are you a sphinx, a bit of a clairvoy- 
ant, or — you pretty, willful little creature — are you 
just trying to make yourself as miserable as possible ?” 
and Vida laid her finger under her sister-in-law’s chin, 
and looked deeply and long into the eyes that were so 
marvelously like Sidney’s. 

“ How do I know ?” asked Bebe, slowly, a dimple 
coming suddenly into her cheek as she sat up, a co- 
quettish mixture of tumbled laces, tumbled bronze- 
gold hair, her eyes half-ashamed and half-defiant. 
“ Well — just to make a clean breast of it — I ’ve been 
on horseback up and down the boulevards for hours 
and hours every day — just — just hoping to catch a 
glimpse of him ; I ’ve walked my feet off ; I ’ve kept 


The house ey the river. 


89 


my eyes rolling, trying to look both directions at once ; 
but there hasn’t been the ghost of him — there /” 

She flung her arms around Vida’s neck, and, between 
angry little bursts of laughter and sounds that were 
suspiciously like sobs, called herself a fool, a creature 
without pride, and that it would be no wonder at all if 
Vida hated her, and that she supposed she did. 

A tenderness that swept like a veil over Vida’s beau- 
tiful eyes made them look like great, velvet pansies, 
as she laid her cool, white hand on the childish head 
and touched all that was visible of the flushed cheek. 

“ Dear child, you may tell me ! Bebe — Bebe — do 
you care for him so much ?” she asked in a whisper 
that invited a young heart’s secret. 

There was no answer, no movement, but the half- 
sad laughter ceased. 

“ You don’t want to tell me ? Well, never mind. But 
remember, Bebd, remember always that I love you 
dearly, and that I want you to be happy. Remember 
a week is a little while to a man whose life is crowded 
with business details, as your young friend’s may be. 
He will come to Applethorpe yet, I feel sure of it. Be- 
sides — I hate to say it — but you know, dearie, he may 
have been ill — it ’s been such wretchedly hot weather 
until this morning.” 

Bebd looked up, her face all contrition and concern. 

“Oh, do you think so, Vida? 111? The poor dear, 
and I abusing him this way ! Couldn’t we find out 
some way if he were ill, and send him some — some 
jelly ?” she quavered. 

It was hard for Vida to remain properly serious, but 
she managed it. 

“ I ’ll see, dear ; I ’ll ask Sidney about the jelly.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! Not for worlds !” 

“Why not?” 


90 


THE HOUSE BV THE RIVER. 


“ Why, couldn’t you see that Sid didn’t like him ?” 

The words aroused a tormenting doubt, a sense of 
unrest that of late had tormented Vida. 

Was this true ? Did Sidney dislike Felix Love ? If 
so, why ? What hidden event in the past were they 
both thinking of that day in Delmonico’s when they 
were so icily, ominously polite to each other ? She had 
thought at first that this might be her fancy, but since 
Bebe noticed it, too, it did exist. 

For days after that meeting she had tortured her- 
self — for Vida was as jealous as a Spaniard where she 
loved — she had fretted her heart with questions that 
gave back no answer. 

Then she had remembered that crimson evening by 
the sea when she had clung to her lover, kept him at 
her side, promising to trust him blindly, to ask no 
questions, to believe in the face of all doubts, if he 
would but stay with her. 

Surely that was a compact that no passing suspicion 
could break down ! She had kept him when he would 
have gone on some vital, secret errand — she had prom- 
ised to believe in him, and she would. 

But a woman’s heart ! Is there in life anything 
more inconsistent, more illogical than that very neces- 
sary organ ? 

Oh, what allegiance to this vow was costing her ! 
Like Fatima, who risked her life to peep into Blue- 
beard’s secret chamber, passing by all the others with- 
out interest, so the question kept haunting Vida : 

“ What leaf in my husband’s life is turned down to 
me ? What is the secret ? Who are his enemies ? Who 
is Felix Love, and what does he know of Sidney’s past ? 
Is the secret shameful for him, or for another ? Is it 
the old story of cherchez la femme ? Will the shadow 
ever be lifted from our otherwise perfect love ? Shall 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


91 


I ever know ? Will he tell me some day ? Will he tell 
me ?" 

Before she could reply to Bebe, the footman entered. 

“ If you please, mum, there 's a person here wants to 
see Mr. Raritan.” 

“ Have you the gentleman's card ?” 

“ No,* mum,” replied the cockney servant, his chin 
well up. “ This hain’t a gentleman — this is a pusson. 
I think he 's come to hengage hisself to Mr. Raritan. 
He 's furrin — I might say that he 's French.” 

“ Oh, it 's probably the new valet,” said Vida, lan- 
guidly. “ I '11 see him here, Ruggles.” 

Yes, mum, quite so.” 

He withdrew, and after a moment there entered a 
funny little man that almost made Bebd laugh out- 
right. 

He was a creature of shrugs and grimaces. From 
the most pointed hair standing upright with pomatum 
to the tips of his highly polished little boots, he was in- 
deed a Frenchman. 

“You have come to see Mr. Raritan in regard to his 
advertisement for a valet, I suppose ?” asked Vida, 
standing up straight in her slender, regal beauty and 
looking at the affected little man without a grain of 
the amusement she felt showing in her eyes. 

“ A leetle more zan zat. Oh, yes ! Meester Rairitan 
have sent me a lettair to call — yes, madame— and I 
present myself for hees inspection. So !” And he 
bowed very low with impressive dignity. 

“ Ah, indeed ! What 's your name ?” 

“ Etienne Oudry.” 

“ I suppose you have references and experience ?” 
she asked. 

“ Out certainement^ madame. Voila !** And he 
plunged into his pocket, keeping his small, pompous 


92 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


little body bent almost to a right angle as he did 
so. 

“ That will do. I merely wanted to know. Mr. Rari- 
tan will engage you if you are satisfactory. He may 
not be home until dinner, but you may stay and see 
him. Ruggles will take care of you.” 

She rang the bell, and Ruggles, wearing his most 
condescending expression, appeared. 

“ This man comes as the new valet. See that he has 
dinner with you, if by that time Mr. Raritan has not 
arrived,” she said. 

And the Frenchman bowed himself out. 

“ What a queer-looking man !” said Bebe, with a lit- 
tle laugh. “ I say, Vida, you ’ll never let him curl the 
front of Sidney’s bronze locks that way, will you ?” 

“ You absurd child S For all his affected airs, I 
shouldn’t wonder if he made a splendid servant. 
These Frenchmen generally do. Have another cup 
of tea ?” 

As she settled herself among the pillows Bebe ran 
from the window and whispered excitedly : 

“ There 's a man just come up the garden walk ! I 
wonder if it might be — he ?” 

“ Dear me ! Has it come to pronouns ?” laughed 
Vida. “ It ’s always a bad sign, my dear, when a 
woman, be she young or old, begins to talk as if there 
were but one man in the world ; that he had no name, 
being labeled just ‘he ’ in capitals.” 

There was a step at the door — Ruggles again, this 
time with a card. 

“ Mr. Clyde Hastings !” 

The delicate color flew to Vida’s soft, oval cheek as 
she read that name. Why did he come uninvited to 
Applethorpe ? She did not like him, Sho did not want 
him, 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


93 


Yet when he appeared, dark, pale, the marks of suf- 
fering around his eyes, a faint throb of pity for him 
did animate Vida’s heart. It was love — a vain love for 
her — that had saddened his face. She knew that. 
While she had no touch of sympathy with him, this 
knowledge, now that she was quite happy herself, did 
lend him some interest in her eyes. 

“ You did not ask me to come,” he said, as he bent 
over her hand, “ but I dared to make my way here un- 
invited, nevertheless. It is not too late to congratulate 
you on your marriage, is it ?” he asked. And just for 
a second an expression of agony and bitterness looked 
from his eyes that thrilled her almost with fear. 

I hope it will never be too late for that,” she said, 
in her mellow, velvety tones ; and, turning to Bebe, 
presented them. ^ 

Clyde Hastings’s glance swept over the young girl, 
but it was sphinx-like. No one, to watch him, would 
ever dream how much he had heard of Bebe from poor 
Felix during the past week. 

“ Pretty ?” he thought, as he looked at the unlined 
face, the dreamy, childish eyes of little Beb^. “ Well, 
I suppose so ! If you want a complexion of rose and 
snow, there it is for you ; big, blue eyes, with trailing 
lashes — you have them, too ; a dear, rosy, babyish 
mouth — it 's right before you ; a round, satiny chin, 
cleft by a dimple, a fuzz of gold-bronze hair above a 
low, white brow — yes, dainty Miss Raritan has all these 
delightful and fortunate gifts. I suppose it’s only 
natural that Felix should have fallen in love with her 
— the young fool ! Love !” he thought bitterly. “ As if 
he was beginning to know what it means in its deepest 
sense ! To know love, one must have suffered until 
the agony mounts a voiceless protest to heaven. I have 
loved — I know !” 


94 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ You ’ll have a cup of tea ?” asked Vida. “ It ’s 
Pekoe, fragrant as a rose.” 

“ Thanks, I will.” 

Tea ? As if he would not have drunk poison from 
those hands almost as willingly. 

His haggard eyes watched Vida as she bent over the 
pretty table, aheap of pink roses on the mantel behind 
her making an entrancing background for her golden 
head, pale, cameo-like profile, and graceful, white-robed 
figure. 

“ Is Mr. Raritan at home ?” he asked, as he took the 
pretty Wedgewood cup from her hands, while Bebe at 
the piano in the shaded corner trilled out soft melodies 
that breathed of love and passion. 

“ No, he will be in shortly,” she said, seating herself ; 
and picking up a big fan, commenced to wave it slowly 
to and fro. 

“ I may as well tell you,” said Clyde, watching Vida 
narrowly as he stirred his tea, “ that Sidney likes me 
none too well. But I want to change all that — now 
that he is your husband ! Do you understand ?” he 
asked, passionately, eagerly. 

“ Hardly,” and there was a slight chill in Vida’s tone. 
“ I can fancy Sidney being sought for himself alone.” 

Ah, well, he is a good fellow ! I ’m willing to let 
bygones be bygones, if he is,” and he looked down 
mysteriously at the pattern of the Persian rug at his 
feet. 

“ Do you mean that you and he had quarreled ? I 
did not know that.” 

“ We had a few words — when I found — well, to be 
candid, when I found he was a suitor of yours. I 
taunted him with something in his past.” 

He let it appear that the words had slipped out un- 
consciously, looked down as if in chagrin and confu- 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


95 


sion, while all the while he noted the stern whiteness 
that settled around the mobile, curved lips of this 
woman he loved so madly, so hopelessly. 

“ In his past !” 

The words were like a torrent in Vida’s brain. Was 
this something- that she might not know to rise and 
confront her at every turn ? As much as possible, she 
hid the knowledge of how deeply his words had cut. 

“ Please say no more, Mr. Hastings,” and her dark 
eyes flashed. “ What you may have felt for me belongs 
irretrievably to the past. Even to speak of it as in the 
past offends me now. As for my’ husband, please un- 
derstand that I am quite satisfied with his past and 
present. His friends are mine ; his enemies mine.” 

How beautiful she looked as these cold, scornful 
words left her lips, and how mournfully the music 
came from the shaded niche where Bebe sat ! The 
scene affected Hastings strongly. Villain though he 
was, there was one real feeling in his life — the love for 
this woman, that was no more conquered than is the 
lion which is made a captive by force, who lies silent 
and brooding merely because he sees no promise of 
freedom before him. 

But Clyde Hastings had come to Applethorpe that 
afternoon with a well-conceived plan in his mind. He 
was going to get the entree of the house ; he was going 
to insinuate his way into Vida’s confidence. The time 
would come when he would be her friend. 

Her friend ! The man who would quietly and re- 
lentlessly ruin and brand her husband ! Her friend — 
the snake in her Eden ! He had not despaired yet. 

Vida was proud and cold now, but when the world 
had turned its fickle back upon her, the wife of a con- 
victed murderer, how would it be then ! 



CHAPTER XII. 

it 

“ SO CLOSE WE ARE, AND YET SO FAR APART." 

Unnoticed, the music in the corner ceased, and Bebe 
slipped from the room. 

On the terrace, strewn with rugs and easy-chairs, she 
paused and picked up a big-brimmed hat on which a 
wreath of honeysuckle nodded. 

“ They 're gossiping there ; they won’t miss me. I 
simply can’t stay quiet any longer,’’ she thought as she 
ran down the steps to the shelving stretches of grass 
that glimmered far away under the rows of apple-trees 
like richly- toned velvet. 

It was now on the verge of the summer twilight — a 
magical hour. Far away there was a suggestion of the 
smoke from the great city against a sky of glowing 
crimson, dotted here and there by the white light of an 
early star. But around Applethorpe there was the 
coolness and silence of the country. Far up in the pale- 
blue above Bebe’s head hung the wan ghost of a young 
moon ; the breeze softly stirred, the trees rustled their 
leaves in soft whisperings. 

How still and inviting the long, green aisles were be- 
tween the apple-trees ! How the white road gleamed 
beyond the lodge gates ! How dim and mysterious the 

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The house Ey The rIver. 


Woods on the other side looked, stretching away, far 
away ! 

Bebe hurried on lightly* Her young heart was 
aflame with its burden of love* It was delicious to 
flutter along the white road in the deepening sunset 
and think and think that Felix would come to-mofrow, 
that there was some reasonable explanation for his 
continued absence. 

Descending a hilly road that led down to low, marshy 
land, Bebe found herself in the loneliest spot she had 
ever seen. A small river wound along like a silver 
snake between long, reedy grasses, and the only house 
in sight was a low, square building, closely shiittered, 
the garden a riot of rank weeds. 

“ Ugh ! It looks haunted, that house by the river. 
I wonder who lives there ! It seems the very place for 
a murder, or one of those dreadful houses where 
wicked people throw poor, insane relatives to die, un- 
known and uncared for,’' she thought, preparing to turn 
her back upon it, when suddenly she stopped, inter- 
•ested. Surely she knew that figure coming so guard- 
tcdly and stealthily down the path ! 

She waited until the man came within a few steps of 
her, then she stepped from the shadow of the tree 
where she had been idly leaning, and faced him in her 
tuncompromising, school-girl fashion. 

What were you doing in that house ? You don’t 
live there, do you ?” she asked, sternly. 

Yes, Bebe had not been mistaken. She was looking 
istraight into the apologetic, restless eyes of the new 
valet. 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, you startle me !” he gasped, re- 
moving his hat from his oiled hair, his mustache curv- 
ing upward in a craven smile. 

“ What have you been doing down there ? Were you 


98 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


not told to wait in the servants’ quarters for Mr. Rari- 
tan ?” she demanded — for Bebe had been accustomed 
to authority all her spoiled life, and could look as cool 
and commanding as a young princess upon occasions. 

“True, mademoiselle,” shrugged the new servant. 
“ But ze maison was ver’ hot. I went to take a walk ; 
I remembered zat ol’ pless zare. Once a fren’ of mine 
— a poor, sickly young Englishman, leeve zare. I 
strolled up ze walk for ze remembrance sake of ze time 
when we used to smoke in zee little garden.” 

“ H’m ! You must have lived a long time in this 
country,” sniffed Bebe, suspiciously. “ That must have 
been years and years ago.” 

“ Only two years, mademoiselle — two short years 
since my fren’ live there — poor fellow ! Zee house ees 
damp. Eet kill him ; I know eet. But advice he would 
not take.” 

“ Well, you ’d better go back ! Mr. Raritan won’t 
like to be kept waiting ;” and her clear, proud eyes 
watched him half-contemptuously as he minced out of 
sight. 

“ There ’s something uncanny about that little 
Frenchman. He ’s like a monkey. I hope Sid will 
send him about his business,” she thought, and then, 
without another look at the house by the river, that 
was destined to play such a strange part in the fortunes 
of her life, she turned down another road. 

Her dislike would have sprung to open antagonism 
could she have seen the valet pause as he reached a 
green, shaded spot, well out of sight. 

He stretched out his arms and yawned, while a very 
masculine, forcible chuckle, quite unlike the French- 
man’s squeaky voice, broke from his lips. 

“That was a rum go! I must be more careful! 
That girl has sharp eyes ; a temper, too, by Jove ! 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


99 


I ’m glad it wasn’t Raritan who saw me. It would 
have looked strange to be seen coming out of that 
spooky hole ; but the girl will probably forget all 
about it.” 

After another yawn he doubled himself up again and 
stepped into the road, hurrying with small, quick steps, 
like the proverbial dancing-master’s, toward Apple- 
thorpe. 

Etienne Oudry, the Frenchman, he was now, beyond 
all doubt ; and yet it surely was the gruff voice of 
Theodore Griggs that had spoken those last words ! 
Theodore Griggs, the lynx-eyed, the smooth-tongued, 
the tireless ; Theodore Griggs, the link between the 
family at stately old Applethorpe, almost hidden in its 
beautiful, clustering orchard, and the lonely figure who 
lived through days of stagnant horror in the eerie, 
cheerless house by the river — the master who paid him 
well, but whose face he had never seen. 

His presence under Sidney’s roof meant that one 
more strand was added to the web that Destiny, the 
kind goddess, was slowly and surely weaving. 

Yes ; Theodore Griggs and Etienne Oudry were the 
same. 

The light faded in the purpling west, and now the 
moon, no longer pale and shadowy, but a yellow sickle, 
that touched the top branches of the trees with silver 
light, shone down on Bebe’s loitering figure as she 
turned her face toward Applethorpe again. She had 
wandered farther through the fragrant land than she 
knew. She was fully half a mile from home. 

“ I ’ll just have time to dress for dinner,” she thought, 
as she let down the bars of a pretty vine- wreathed stile 
that barred a meadow running near the grounds around 
Applethorpe. 

It was public land, bare of trees, and looking like a 


100 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


green, pulseless sea, very enticing and mysterious un- 
der the light of the moon. 

When she came to put up the bars again, however, 
she found that the delicate lace on her skirt was surely 
and firmly wedged between a maddening split in the 
wood. Tug — tug — tug — went the white, slender fin- 
gers, but nothing could move it. 

Yet what a pity it would be to tear it — the gown was 
new, so pretty, too ; in fact, a favorite of hers. 

“ Oh, dear, dear, dear, was there ever such a plaguey 
old thing ! People ought to mend their stiles,” she said 
aloud. 

“ May I help you ?” 

Down went the bar of wood and wide open Bebe’s 
soft, rosy mouth. She knew that voice ! Knew it? 
It sent her blood dancing, thrilling into her cheeks, up 
to the very roots of her hair. 

She turned her saucy profile, and saw before her, 
like dream-figures risen from the moon-mist, Felix 
Love with his hand on his horse’s bridle. 

“ Oh, it ’s you ?” she said coolly, quite forgetting all 
about the imprisoned skirt. “ Good evening !” 

“ I happened along just in time, I see.” 

And, oh, how eagerly Felix’s hungry glance took in 
all the details of that arch, lovely face, the girlish, lis- 
som figure. 

He loved her so ! He would have given a good 
many years of his unspent life to be able to tell her so, 
to take her in his arms that very second, and know the 
rapture of pressing his lips to those dimpled, laughing 
ones that were slightly curled in a dainty scorn. 

And to think that he never could tell her — never 
To khow deep down in his heart that it was the act of 
a madman to seek her presence even on the public 
roads, to bask in the light of her blue^ appealing eyes J 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


101 


‘‘ It ’s all folly — bitter, bitter folly !” he had said that 
afternoon, as he watched his horse being saddled. “ As 
Hastings says, 1 have no business to think of love at 
all, nor wish to be happy until I have settled, once and 
for all, the mystery of my father’s fate. He ’s right 
enough. And I will search and search. Whoever is 
guilty shall suffer, as I ’m a man. But Bebe ! It will 
be like tearing my heart out by the roots to let her 
drift out of my life — and into some other fellow’s arms, 
maybe, some one not half deserving of her, either, who 
won’t love her half as well as I do — for there never was 
a deeper or stronger love than mine. I think she cares 
for me a little, too. I almost believe I could win. But 
she ’s not for me. I have told Hastings I ’d give her 
up — her brother has forbidden me to cross his thresh- 
old. I won’t be a fool and flutter round the candle’s 
flame like every other silly moth. My life and hers lie 
far apart, it seems. There is nothing to be done but 
be brave and accept the inevitable.” 

And after these very philosophical reflections, Mr. 
Felix Love had deliberately turned his horse’s head 
northward ; had ridden through Central Park, along 
the wide, shadowy boulevards, straight to where he 
could catch a glimpse of stately Applethorpe through 
the branching trees. So much for human resolution 
when Cupid is in the game ! 

Felix’s heart was very sore and full of yearning as 
he stood by Bebe now in the silvery half-light. She 
was so near him, so enticing ! What warm, longing 
words trembled on his lips ! Yet they were less than 
strangers. 

So close we are, and yet so far apart ; 

So close I feel your breath upon my cheek; 

So far that, though both heaven and earth should meet, 

J dare not know thee other than thou art,” 


102 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


The lines haunted him, tortured him. What a fool 
he had been to tempt fate ! Yet he had not dreamed 
of meeting this little love of his. At best he had only- 
hoped for a glimpse of her through the trees. 

“ Let me help you,” he said, after tying his horse to 
a tree. ** You have caught your dress, I see.” 

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself !” returned Bebe, icily. 
Then, fearing she had been too hasty, she added . 
“ Have you been to Applethorpe ?” 

He flushed slightly, and a shadow passed over his 
eyes. 

“ No. I ’ve only just ridden up this road.” 

“Oh, indeed !” politely. “ Well, were you going to 
Applethorpe ?” 

“ No, Bebe, I was not,” he said, desperately. 

She stared into his face for a moment, her own grow- 
ing pale and proud. There was something so final in 
his tone — something so full of despair — it stung her 
heart. 

In a moment one thought went singing through her 
brain : 

“He loves me, but he is not free, and he dare not 
come !” 

All her pride came to her aid. Felix Love need not 
think she was the sort of girl to wear the willow for 
any man. How dare he look at her with that sorrow 
in his eyes ? Was he pitying her for — for having be- 
trayed she cared for him ? 

A final wrench, that left silk, muslin and lace behind 
it, and Bebd stood up free. 

“ Good night, Mr. Love,” she managed to say. 

“You ’re not going yet? Just stay a moment! It 
seems ages since I saw you,” Felix commenced, blindly, 
madly. 

“ There was no need for you to deny yourself the 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


103 


pleasure of my society,” answered Bebe, going on for 
a few steps, and then suddenly facing him, light and 
mockery in her eyes. “ I have a home, you know. I 
see my friends there, not on the high-roads and com- 
mons.” 

She gave him a curt little bow and walked on. 

She was going, and in anger ! When would they 
ever meet again ? And, oh, he loved her so ! Felix 
stood irresolute and positively wretched. Then good- 
by to all his vows of strength ! 

In a few long strides he reached her side. He 
touched her sleeve, feeling the warm, smooth flesh 
through the thin stuff. Her eyes, glorious in the flood- 
ing silver light, looked questioningly at him. 

His handsome young face was as white as death. 
His heart was full to bursting. And the words would 
come, struggle as he might : 

“ I love you, Bebe, dear ! I love you better than 
anything in the world ! Oh, you don’t know all ! But 
don’t be hard on me ! Look at me ! Come to me ! 
Bebe, don’t you believe I love you — nozv And he 

had her fast in his arms. 




CHAPTER XIII. 

“ GOOD-BY.” 

In the wild embrace and the sharp sweet kisses upon 
the tempting mouth that followed those words of 
Felix’s, all the world was forgotten — at least Bebd made 
his universe, including sun, moon and stars. 

“ Do you love me, Beb, dear ? Oh, I think you do ; 
but say the word — do say it !” he pleaded, as he held 
her off and searched her azure eyes deeply. 

Soft, delicious, infectious laughter broke from Bebe’s 
lips. 

It seems to me,” she said, with sparkling eyes, 
“ that you have taken that fact quite for granted. Do 
I love you ? Well, let me see — ” and she paused, then 
suddenly let her rounded, muslin-draped arms steal 
around his neck. “ I could eat you,” she whispered, in 
her childish way. “ But why — oh, why haven’t you 
been to see me; all this whole week, Felix ? I ’ve been 
like Mariana in the ‘Moated Grange:’ ‘He cometh 
not — the days are dreary — he cometh not !’ That was 
the moan of my heart as well as hers. Why haven’t 
you been to Applethorpe ?” 

The words recalled him from his rose-colored dream 
to a sense of existing* things. Applethorpe — the para- 
dise that held his angel, and which he might not enter ! 

[104] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


105 


Bebe,” he said, softly, “ come and sit down here on 
this stone. I have something to say to you,” 

“ Oh, but I really must go now, Felix, dear ! I ’ve 
got to dress for dinner. Vida doesn’t like me to be 
late. You come, too. We ’ll pardon your riding togs 
at Applethorpe. Come along.” 

The careless words strained his young heart. Ah, 
that all were innocent and clear ; that he might go to 
her home and be with her that soft, summer night ; 
that no shadow loomed up, one long arm stretching 
out, parting her and him ! 

He led her gently, but forcibly, to the broad, grass- 
grown stone, and threw his arm around her slim, belted 
waist. 

“ It 's just about that I want to talk to you, darling,” 
he said, vehemently, and in a passion of regret and 
longing he brushed back the light, curling locks from 
her forehead and looked deeply into her eyes. “ I 
never can go to Applethorpe.” 

“Why — what do you mean? You’re jesting, 
surely ?” 

“Jesting ? I wish to heaven I were !” 

The bitterness* and reality in the tone made Bebe 
grow white. 

“ Don’t talk in riddles ; tell me all — why you haven’t 
come and why you can’t come ?” 

Felix took her little, burning hands in his and crushed 
them fiercely. 

“ Bebe, darling, after to-night you and I can never 
meet again. I shouldn’t have told you I loved you, 
only I’m a weak fool ; I should have died with my 
secret unspoken. I couldn’t help it, though. This 
seems like a cowardly excuse, but I couldn’t. I want 
you to know that, whatever comes, I love you. I want 
you to feel through all the pain and disgrace that may 


106 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


follow, even if you grow to hate me, to remember that 
Fate was stronger than 1. Oh, Bebe, if only you were 
another man’s sister !” 

She had sat with darkening eyes filled with amaze- 
ment and pain, looking into his as if fascinated. His 
last stammering, impulsive words gave her an inkling 
of the truth. 

It was because she was Sidney’s sister that her lover 
- talked in this way about parting. 

She pushed his arm from her, and stood up, a pretty, 
sylph-like figure in the magical light that flooded the 
common. 

“ What ’s the matter between you and Sid ?” she 
asked, coldy. Have you anything to say against my 
brother ?” 

“ It ’s a strange story, and a long one, Bebe, dear. I 
can’t tell you now. But — but — your brother and I are 
not friends. Don’t ask me why.” 

“You spoke of disgrace. Do you mean forme to 
understand that such a thing could come near Sid ? 
You don’t know him, if you do. Nothing you could 
say would make me believe that. He ’s the soul of 
honor, the best, the dearest fellow in .the world.” 

Two big tears started to her angry eyes, and she 
faced him with her little hands clenched. 

Never had Felix loved her better than in that mo- 
ment, when she defied him in her defense of her 
brother. What could he say ? Explanation was im- 
possible. 

There was only the bitterness of parting left. 

He stood up and held out both hands. 

“ Say good-by to me, dear little Bebd,” he said, and 
his voice was strained and husky from feeling. 

“ Good-by ?” came in a tremulous question from her 
lips, and then all the strength of her love rushed over 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


107 


her warm heart in a flood. She seized his arm in a 
tense grasp ; she looked prayerfully into his face. 

What is this that lies between us, Felix ? Can’t you 
tell me ? You have made my heart cold and sick. Oh, 
I love you ! I love you ! Why must we say good-by ?” 

The night-breeze sighed around them ; the silver ra- 
diance of the moon poured on their young faces, wear- 
ing for the first time the imprint of real, heartfelt grief. 

“ Bebe, your brother and I are enemies. He has 
forbidden me to enter his house,” said Felix, in a tone 
that was utterly hopeless. “ There is a reason which 
makes me his enemy, and which parts you and me as 
surely as death. Oh, darling, if I could find that all 
this trouble were but a dream, and that you and I 
were free to marry and be true to each other all our 
lives long, how sweet it would be. But it is best to 
look the truth in the face. I know it, and know that 
marriage for us is impossible. Yes, even friendship. 
When the day comes when you shall know why, you 
will see that I speak truly. My love — more to me than 
life — good-by — good-by !” 

He crushed her to his aching heart, and then, fear- 
ing to trust himself longer, sprang to his horse’s back 
and rode quickly out of sight. 

Bebe, stunned and white, stood where he had left 
her, one arm flung over the top of the low, wooden 
post where the loosened bars leaned, her eyes fastened 
on the curve of the road where, in a shower of silver 
light, her lover had gone from her sight. 

It seemed to her then that something of youth died 
within her in that moment. There was an awful, om- 
inous feeling of dread in her aching heart. She seemed 
to see Sidney in the lurid shadow, his face like one 
dead — she seemed to see Applethorpe closed, deserted, 
like the lonely house by the river she had looked at 


108 


tHE HOUSE EY the RIVEE. 


only an hour before — she seemed to see Vida’s beauti- 
ful eyes filled with tragedy beyond words as she stood 
a lonely, hopeless figure — and Felix and herself sepa- 
rated by a gulf that never could be passed. 

What did it all mean ? He had said “ disgrace.” 
This was no trifle that loomed up between her and 
Felix — it was real, awful, lifelong ! 

The night wind seemed to have grown colder, or was 
the coldness in her own heart ? She shivered, her face 
was wan and haggard, and she turned from that lonely 
road down which her lover had passed — was it for the 
last time ? 

For the last time ? 





CHAPTER XIV. 

“ It is the little rift within the lute 
That by and by makes all the music mute.” 

Vida sat waiting upon the terrace for Sidney. Clyde 
Hastings had gone, and she had changed her gown 
from the white afternoon silk to a soft, pale yellow that 
showed the smooth, gleaming pallor of throat and arms. 

Her white fingers, glittering with diamonds and 
emeralds that winked like uncanny eyes in the moon- 
light, were loosely knotted around her knees ; she was 
looking far away into the misty, moonlit distance ; her 
pretty lips were set in an expression of pain and de- 
termination. 

Never as long as she lived could she forget the brief 
half-hour spent in Clyde Hastings’s company that day. 
What had he said to make her heart and mind choke 
with these thick-crowding fears ? Little enough, but 
his glances, his very way of speaking, his abrupt 
pauses and contradictions were proof that he was ap- 
parently trying to hide something from her — something 
it would pain her to know of — something he dare not 
tell her — something about her husband. 

The thought wrung her proud heart. This secret of 
Sidney’s that at first had seemed so trivial to her, such 
a small test of her passionate faith, was beginning to 

assume proportions that almost terrified her. 

[109] 


110 


THE HOtjSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Why may I not know ? Why must I be kept in the 
dark — I, who love him so — who might help him ?” was 
the cry of her heart. 

“ Waiting for me, Vida ?” asked a deep, cheery voice 
that made her start, and Sidney, running hurriedly up 
the steps, came toward her. 

“ How late you are !” she said, trying to keep the 
tremulous questioning from her voice, as he drew her 
into his embrace and kissed her tenderly on the lips. 

Late?" he echoed, with a light laugh. ‘*Yes, in- 
deed, and no wonder ! How little you women know of 
the fever that 's brewing in Wall Street just now. Why, 
there was almost a panic on the Street to-day ! I 'm 
thoroughly played out ! Where ’s Bebe ?" 

“ I saw her run upstairs a few moments ago. She 's 
dressing. Do hurry, Sidney ; don’t let ’s keep dinner 
waiting ; the soup will be spoiled." 

“ All right, dearie. But — " and pausing, he stepped 
back to her side again, letting the shaded lamplight 
from the drawing-room fall fully upon her. “ What ’s 
the matter ? Anything worrying you ? You look 
lovely, darling, but so white ! I never saw you so pale 
before." 

“ It ’s the heat," she said, lightly. “ And, oh, by the 
way, you ’d better see the new valet. He ’s with Rug- 
gles, and has been waiting some time." 

She turned her face away, feeling almost guilty under 
the gaze of Sidney’s candid, fearless eyes. 

“ 1 ’m off, then. Did Thomas bring up my mail from 
the club ?’’ 

“Yes, I have it safe for you," she replied, playfully. 

“ There are about twenty letters, and you shall not 
have them until you come down to dinner." 

“ Oh, they ’ll keep !" and with a fragment of song on 
his lips, Sidney went into the house. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Ill 


The mention of the mail had recalled the letters to 
Vida, and to employ the time of waiting, she went 
over to the little Chippendale secretary in the drawing- 
room where she had laid them. Was it fate that she 
should pick them up. and let them slip slowly through 
her hands ? 

“ Business — business — business — how easily one tells 
the mercantile letter. And here 's one in Charley 
Frere’s writing. One from the lawyers — I wonder if 
Sid is making his will ? This is a bill from my milliner. 
That last bonnet was a cruel disappointment. I shall 
go to Felice after this.” 

One after the other she dropped them languidly, but 
at last she came to one that made her bend forward ; 
her level brows knitted curiously. 

It was a small letter and written on thin, glazed 
paper, the sort employed in foreign correspondence. 
The writing was a woman’s, the postmark “ London.” 

I wonder whom this is from ? I wonder if he ’ll 
tell me ?” 

She started up, clutching the small, square envelope 
fiercely, her bosom panting, a sudden stain starting into 
her pale cheek. 

Irresolute she stood there, passing her hand in a 
dazed fashion over her brow, every sense quivering. 

What if the secret that is beginning to torture me 
has something to do with a woman — this woman ?” 
was the thought that rang in her mind until her very 
blood seemed touched with flame. 

Should she keep it ? Read it ? 

No ; she couldn’t do that. She shrank from a dis- 
honorable action. He should have the letter, and she 
would watch him. If he did not tell her, then she 
would know that another woman shared his thoughts 
— perhaps his love. 


112 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Like one stricken with an ague, she trembled and 
closed her eyes. How mad she was ! This suspicious- 
looking letter, coming so soon after Clyde Hastings’s 
innuendoes, had assumed too much importance in her 
eyes. 

Then, woman-like, she trifled with the temptation, 
to see, to know something of its contents, just so that 
Sidney might be cleared in her eyes even from the 
faintest suspicion. 

She had a right to know, surely ! Was she not his 
wife ? Oh, yes, she must assure herself a little, just to 
ease her heart and to clear him. There could be no 
harm — no one would know ! 

Yet, much as she excused the action to herself, she 
felt like a thief, as she crept over the softly-carpeted 
floor, and reaching the door, looked up and down the 
great square hall filled with rugs and tinted lamps and 
great nodding ferns in vases. The pretty place was 
quite deserted. 

Without letting her resolution weaken, she glided to 
the lamp at the window, her rich draperies sweeping 
behind her, her lovely, golden head bent forward, the 
whole making an exquisite study in color. 

She held the thin envelape close to the white light 
under the shade, and her eager eyes traced the criss- 
cross writing with an intensity that was painful. 

Only here and there could she distinguish a word, 
but they were words that stabbed her : 

“ That night — love — trust — husband — proof — for you 
-—marry— dear, dear Sidney.” 

And the name ! She could see the dark fines of the 
signature^ but, at first, reading it seemed a hopeless task. 

Feverishly she bent the thin paper one way and an- 
other, until at length she was able to spell out the word 
she thirsted to know : 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


113 


“ A-l-o-h-a.” 

Aloha ! A strange name and one she had never 
heard pass her husband’s lips. 

She stood like one dazed, as white as death, then she 
moved forward mechanically as she heard Sidney’s 
step upon the stairs, and, without so much as a tremor 
of the hand, placed the letter among the rest. 

“ It is all a mistake ; there is some explanation of it. 
He will tell me. I shall laugh at this pain by and by !” 
she thought, feverishly, as she clasped her cold hands. 
“ Yes, he will tell me — oh, yes, he will !” 

By a supreme effort she forced a smile to her drawn 
lips. 

“ Where is Beb ? Why doesn’t she come ?” asked 
Sidney. “ The vain little minx ! How many hours 
does she require for her toilet ?” 

As he spoke, Bebe’s maid appeared at the door. 

“ If you please, sir. Miss Bebe has such a bad head- 
ache she begs to be excused. She was out late, walk- 
ing ; her dress was very thin, and she thinks she got a 
touch of cold from the dews.” 

“ All right, Jane. Take good care of her. We ’ll be 
up to see her after dinner.” 

Poor Bebe ! She did have a headache, indeed, and 
one whose throbbing could scarcely keep pace with the 
pangs in her heart. The world was all awry, all out of 
tune to her that lovely August night. She could only 
see one face in fancy — her lover’s — so set, so full of 
anguish as he said good-by. She only heard one word 
that a little imp seemed whispering to her over and 
over again — “ disgrace !” 

“So we are to dine tcte-a-tcte to-night, Vida ?” said 
Sidney. “ That wdll be jolly. Do you mind if I take 
the letters to the table and look them over ? No one 
will probably happen in until after dinner/^ 


114 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ I don’t mind in the least — of course not,” she man- 
aged to say, and then bent her stony face to the bowl 
of hyacinths beside her to hide its pallor. 

How she hated herself to sit there and watch him, 
with suspicion in her heart ! She loved him so ! God 
help her — it was this very love that made the task 
such a cruel one ! 

“ But he will tell me — I know he will !” she thought, 
yearningly, tenderly. “ And when he does. I’ll creep 
behind his chair and kiss his dear lips. He ’ll never 
know that I bury the last doubt of him in that kiss, but 
it will make me happy to do it.” 

It seemed an eternity before Sidney lifted the small, 
shining envelope. Her heartbeats were thick and 
burning ; a clammy dew broke out on her brow ; the 
food she was eating .seemed as tasteless as dust. 

If he failed her — if he failed her ! Oh, would love 
or life be ever the same again ! 

“ You have a foreign correspondent, I see,” she said, 
in a voice that to her sounded strange and cold. 

“Yes. I can’t think who it can be from, although 
I ’ve seen the writing somewhere before,” said Sidney, 
listlessly, as he tore open the envelope. 

If a dagger had been stricken to the core of Vida’s 
heart she could not have suffered more blinding pain 
than now as she covertly watched the whiteness that 
slowly overspread Sidney’s face as his glance met the 
lines she had partly seen. 

He read the letter silently. These were the words : 

“No. — Park Lane, London. 

“My Dear Old Sid: Did you think me dead, from my 
silence? Or that I had forgotten you and your loyalty that 
night — that awful night which haunts me still, no matter where I 
go? Dear, dear Sidney, you little know how fond I am of you ! 
Why, if I could ever repay your kindness — if I could ever do any- 


THE MOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


115 


thing for you to show you how deeply, deeply grateful I am — I 
would with a glad heart. I mean this. Don’t think these are 
mere words. 

“And now to tell you something of my story since I last 
wrote to you. I cut adrift from the past, and in a new land 
where no one knew me, where no inkling of my unfortunate story 
could leak out, I began a new life. 

“Little by little I made friends, and among them one that I 
grew to love. Of course, I struggled against the feeling. What 
had I to do with love ? I had wrecked my life at the start, and 
as an unloved, unloving wife I was cut off from happiness. 

“ But a ray of light pierced the darkness that hovered over my 
sky. Months ago I heard from my father that my husband, 
Allan Love, was reported dead. Was it wrong to feel a sense of 
freedom, of joy ? Was it wrong to dream of love again ? 

“ More than a year has passed since my marriage, and I un- 
derstand that still no trace of him can be found. I firmly believe 
that he is dead. He was a man of many plots, and he had many 
enemies. In the West how many men have found nameless 
graves among the lonely rivers, pools, and deep, unexplored 
canyons ? 

“ Of course, there is no positive proof of this, and I shall wait 
another year. If in that time no trace of Allan Love is found, 
surely some steps can be taken to set me free. Some day I may 
be Lady Germon. You have heard of young Lord Richard Ger- 
mon, of Wessex Court? He loves me as dearly as I love him. 
I have told him all of my story that I dared — all but the history 
of that night on the prairies. That no one must ever know. I 
feel my heart bursting with shame when I think of it. Ah, what 
a friend you were to me, Sidney ! I can trust my sorrowful 
secret with you. You will never fail me. What would have be- 
come of me but for you ? I shudder to think of it. I would 
have killed myself, poor, ignorant, shame-stricken child that I 
was ! 

“ You see, I am sending this to your club in New York. News 
of your return East reached me from home. 

“ By the way, father has been untiring in his efforts to dis- 
cover some trace of Allan Love. In doing so he found that all 
the witnesses of my unhappy marriage, except yourself, are 


116 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVeE. 


silenced. The minister went to Africa with a band of mis- 
sionaries; the sheriff drank himself to death ; and the old woman 
is in the county asylum, insane. You are the guardian of my 
secret. Where could I find a truer one ? 

^'Oh, Sidney, I love Sir Richard as a woman loves but once. Tel^ 
me if I am free to marry him soon, would it be very wrong to 
hide the history of that wretched night from him ? Why should 
I cloud, by a single shadow, the reverence he has for me? I was 
a child. I had been bitterly sinned against. Must I tell him? 
Even should you bid me do so, I fear I could not. No, no ! 
Tell me not to roll the stone from the grave of that sorrowful 
story. Tell me that the future of love and unswerving loyalty 
that may be mine can be the full atonement for keening silence 
about the bitter past. Do write to me, dear friend. 

‘^Fondly, Aloha.” 

Sidney crushed the letter in his palm, then thrust it 
in his pocket, not dreaming that Vida, as if under the 
chill horror of a horrible spell, was watching him. 

“ Was the London letter interesting ?” she asked, at 
last. 

“ Oh, no then he added absently : “ A business 
matter.” 

It was scarcely a lie, nor did he mean it so. The 
impossibility of discussing it with Vida made him take 
refuge in a sweeping subterfuge. 

But to her, as those careless words left his lips, it 
seemed that a thunderbolt had fallen upon the fair edi- 
fice of her life and crushed it to ruins. 

He had lied to her ! She could never trust him again. 

Half an hour later he stood, smoking, leaning against 
the mantel. She was apparently trifling with some 
grapes, but under her lashes she saw him covertly 
tear the letter to bits, and thrust the fragments in his 
pocket. 

One, unnoticed, fluttered to the hearth. She saw 
this, too. 


THE HOUSE BY THE BIVER. 


117 


After he had left the room she glided over and 
picket it up. It was the last inch of paper, and start- 
ing out like letters of fire before her eyes, she saw : 
“ Fondly, Aloha.” 

** I shall keep it. Now, nothing shall prevent me 
from using every power in my brain and heart to dis- 
cover this secret of his,” came in a fierce, gasping 
whisper from her white lips. “ I won’t be tricked, de- 
ceived. He lied to me. I almost — hate him !” 

A hard, bitter sob broke from her lips as she thrust 
the scrap of paper in her breast, where its sharp edge 
lay like a needle’s point against her passionate, jealous, 
suffering heart. 

“ I ’ll say nothing about Clyde Hastings having been 
here,” she thought, and there was a gloomy satisfac- 
tion in knowing that Sidney did not like him. They 
are enemies ! Then he shall be my friend.” 




CHAPTER XV. 

THE SERPENT LOOKS INTO EDEN. 

The summer days were over. The end of October 
had arrived — days of crisp winds, quick dusks, falling 
leaves red as blood and yellow as the gold for which 
Beauty so often sells herself — nights chilly, clear, 
starlit. 

On this particular October night there was to be a 
ball at Applethorpe. 

There was little outward change in that small house- 
hold, but in reality a gulf was widening every day be- 
tween husband and wife, while Bebe felt herself old, 
old, her heart like a stone, as she waited for the thun- 
derbolt that was some day to shatter peace forever. 

It seemed to Sidney^ that of late Vida had nursed a 
mocking devil in her heart, so quickly did she turn any 
tender saying of his into ridicule. She was colder. 
She was becoming a woman of fashion, indeed, con- 
stantly entertaining, and filling her days so completely 
with frivolity that there was little real home life at 
Applethorpe. 

Not knowing the cause of this, he believed that her 
love for him was waning. The thought stabbed his 
heart, and he suffered bitterly in silence. Too proud 
to sue for what seemed drifting from him, he remained 
away from home more than formerly, and his life was 
filled with business cares. 



THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


119 


But more than all else, he resented the friendly foot- 
ing Clyde Hastings had gradually secured in his house- 
hold. The man had made an abject apology for his 
former charge ; had excused the wild words he had 
uttered as coming from a senseless jealousy ; had 
begged for the sake of his past friendship with both 
Vida and himself that he might be forgiven. 

It was foreign to Sidney’s sympathetic, impulsive 
heart to resist such a plea, particularly as he reflected 
that he was the victor, the possessor of the happiness 
for which this man had craved. So, one night, in the 
club-house at Tuxedo, after a day’s shooting with a 
party of men of which Clyde happened to be one, they 
had shaken hands and declared that “ bygones should 
be bygones.” 

This wiping out of an old score was one thing, but 
Clyde Hastings’s constant presence in his house night 
after night was quite another. He was Vida’s com- 
panion during long afternoon rides along the tree- 
shaded boulevards and quiet country roads. They 
seemed to have much to say to each other of a confi- 
dential nature, and her old hatred of him seemed to have 
altered completely to a warm, appreciative friendship, 
which a suspicious person might have construced into 
a warmer feeling. 

Such a thought, however, never entered Sidney’s 
mind. His wife’s heart might be chilling toward him ; 
but her truth, her honor, were matters that admitted 
of no question. 

On the night of the ball Clyde’s chambers were cozy 
with firelight. He was dressed en regie ^ and had 
thrown himself languidly into an arm-chair to smoke 
a last, meditative cigarette. 

His thoughts were pleasant, for a smile hovered 
round his lips, his gray eyes glittering like a cat’s. 


1^0 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Ten days since Markby left for the West with full 
directions. He \s villain enough to carry out the plan 
successfully. He ought to do it well/’ he thought ; 
and, while gazing into the bed of ruby coals, he sent 
the blue smoke into fantastic rings around his head. 
“ It was a good plan of mine to conduct the whole mat- 
ter personally, to have him come on from the West. 
No scrap of writing must connect me with this scheme. 
I know too well that a written line has hanged a man 
before this. He ought to find it easy enough with his 
resources to discover a dead body in a lonely stream, 
altered, of course, beyond positive recognition, but with 
a card of Allan Love’s in his pocket. That memoran- 
dum book of Raritan’s which I picked up so carelessly 
a month ago — I wonder if he ’s missed it yet ! H’m ! 
How little he guesses that when next heard of, it will 
be found trampled down in the mud near the river 
where the body is found. That will be clue enough to 
start the police ; and that unexplained journey across 
the plains, a little over a year ago, will do the rest.” 

He paused in his reflections and lit a fresh cigarette, 
and now there was passion as well as malice in the 
narrow, cold, gray eyes that watched the throbbing 
coals. 

“ It was useless trifling longer, hoping against hope ! 
The body of Allan Love had to be found, somehow ; if 
not the real one, then a counterfeit, by Heaven ! Vida 
loves Raritan ; she ’s only fooling with me to make him 
jealous, as I can see ! My chance,” and his nostrils di- 
lated — “ my chance lies in the hope of his being proven 
a murderer ! Once declared a felon, she is free, if she 
chooses. And she will choose. She will not cling to 
him after that. I think I ’d find it in me to kill her if 
she did !” 

After the last words, coming so deeply from his 


THE HOUSE EV THE RIVEE. 


121 


heart that he gasped them aloud, he sat back and 
closed his eyes. 

“ Will she listen to me then ? I think I have played 
the sympathetic friend cleverly, and I think she has 
gotten over her dislike of me. But — will she ever — 
marry me ? They say ‘ that everything comes to him 
who waits.' I have waited ! Heavens, have I not ? 
Loved her for years : waited — waited — eating my heart 
out ! I must win ! Such love as mine must carry an 
impetus with it that shatters all- obstacles !” 

The clock ticked in the drowsy stillness, the coals 
sent out cheery little sparks, and in the soft, rosy haze 
he seemed to see her lovely face, the long lustrous 
eyes, so velvety, with such sorcery in the glance that 
flashed from beneath the thick lashes. 

“What is it Tennyson says of a beautiful woman?” 
he thought. “ I remember I learned the verse when I 
first met her. She "was little more than a child then. 

“ ‘Through light and shadow thou dost range 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 

Delicious spites and darling angers, 

And airy forms of flitting change. 

But who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 

Whether smile or frown be sweeter? 

Who may know ?’ " 

As the last words left his lips, slowly, dreamily, there 
was a quick footstep on the marble hall outside. 

“ It 's Felix !” he thought, as he rose and faced the 
door. 

He was right ; for, after a hasty knock, the young 
fellow entered, his handsome face looking strangely 
pale in the rosy light. 

“ Hello, dear boy !” cried Clyde. “ Have a cigarette ? 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


m 


No ? Why, how curt you are ! And what the deuce 
do you mean by looking at me that way ! Any one 
would think,” he said, with alight, uneasy laugh, “ that 
I owed you money.” 

“ I ’m glad 1 found you in,” and there was a touch of 
scorn in Felix’s deep, clear voice. “ It 's been rather 
difficult lately. You Ve been always at Applethorpe 
when I called here.” 

As he uttered the last words his glance made Clyde 
wince. 

“ Don’t be a fool !” he said, curtly. “ You know my 
reasons for going to Applethorpe. Heaven knows I 've 
told you often enough. I ’m on the scent. Do you 
think the chance to study Raritan is going to hurt our 
plans ?” 

“ Look here,” said Felix, bending forward, laying his 
clenched hand on the table, and letting his frank eyes 
gaze deeply, fearlessly into Clyde Hastings’s. “ I don’t 
like your ‘ snake in the grass ' work. Leave that to a 
detective, if we get enough proof to make it seem 
necessary. By the way. I’ve been watching Raritan, 
too. I ’ve met him on the Exchange. I ’ve talked with 
men who know him — and — ” he paused, a little streak 
of color stealing into his cheek, a light to his eye — “ I 
don’t think he ’s the man to strike a blow in the dark.” 

Hastings’s brow grew black, and a sneering laugh 
broke from his lips. 

“ Oh, don’t you, indeed ? Of course, the fact that 
you are madly in love with this fine gentleman’s 
sister has nothing to do with your change of base — 
eh ?” 

“ Kindly leave all mention of her out of the discus- 
sion !” 

“ Oh, certainly, if you prefer it. But I warn you, 
don’t be a fool ! I was your father’s friend, and I ’m 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


123 


thinking of revenging his death. You seem to have 
forgotten him.” 

** Nothing of the sort,” and there was a slight huski- 
ness in Felix’s voice. “ But I feel more and more every 
day that there will come some reasonable explanation 
of his absence. He had plenty of debts — perhaps he ’s 
in hiding. There may have been other reasons knovvn 
only to himself for hasty, sudden flight. Last night I 
dreamed he stood before me, and said — ” 

A shout of laughter from Clyde silenced him and 
made him tingle with wrath. 

My dear boy, I wash my hands of you, if you ’re 
going to talk about dreams. Don’t for mercy’s sake, 
bring the visions occasioned by late suppers into our 
arguments as to whether Sidney Raritan did or did 
not make away with your father !” 

Felix picked up his hat. When he spoke again his 
voice was clear, quiet, and the words he uttered filled 
Clyde Hastings with a tumult of rage. 

“ Look here ! I ’ve done with you ! Go your own 
way. Seek proof as you like. I, however, have come 
to the conclusion to obey my instincts. They tell me 
that Sidney Raritan is an innocent man. You sought 
his friendship for base reasons — I shall seek it hon- 
estly, and take his word of honor when he tells me he 
is not guilty of the crime I once charged him with. 
More than this, whether he accepts my apology or not, 
whether he gives me his hand as a friend or continues 
to regard me as a foe — I shall marry his sister, if she ’ll 
have me. Do you understand me ? After to-night we 
go different paths. No murder can be proven until the 
body of my father is found. I don’t believe it ever will 
be found ! I don’t believe Raritan killed him !” 

The door closed sharply after him, and Hastings was 
alone. 


124 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Fool !" he hissed. “ Go your own gait, then — but 
if you interfere with me, it will be worse for you. 
Marry that girl, and you plan out her lifelong misery 
and your own. I couldn’t want a better revenge — you 
love-sick young idiot !” 

He was white and breathless from the scene, every 
feature stamped with cold determination and almost 
diabolical cruelty. His hand trembled when he poured 
out a glass of brandy. 

The light twinkled on the clear amber as he lifted 
the glass, his mocking eyes still on the closed door. 

“ He doesn’t believe the body will ever be found ! 
Ha — ha !” and he sent the fiery liquid trickling down 
his throat. 

It warmed his blood ; it gave him back his assur- 
ance. Let Felix thwart him if he dared ! 

“ I wonder what he ’ll say when the body is found ? 
Let’s hope he ’ll be Bebe Raritan’s husband then. The 
devil himself couldn’t have arranged things more to his 
Satanic liking !” 




CHAPTER XVI. 

VIDA ASKS A QUESTION. 

The big, square clock in the entrance hall at Apple- 
thorpe pointed to eleven, as Clyde, joining the line of 
late guests, made his way to Vida’s side. 

No one would have dreamed what thoughts were in 
his mind. His distinguished face was calm and lan- 
guid — yet he was planning a game of fate where life 
and death were partners. 

“ You are late,” said Vida, as she gave him her hand. 

Some of the prettiest girls have had to sit out 
dances waiting for the men from New York. Is it 
not a pity ?” 

“ Well, strangely enough, I did not give the prettiest 
girls a thought, as I came along,” he dared to murmur. 

I was thinking of the happiness of seeing you again. 
We have become good friends, have we not ? Good — 
good friends ! Ah, these silly flirtations with debutantes 
have a suggestion of sawdust about them, after one has 
been privileged to occupy the role of good comrade to 
a woman like you.” 

Vida shrugged her pale, smooth shoulders, and her 
long lashes drooped with a suggestion of half- coquet- 
tish weariness. 

“ Pretty speeches so soon, monsieur ? Hadn’t you 

I125] 



126 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


better occupy yourself now with that little girl in pink 
staring so wistfully from the corner by the palms ? It 
isn’t fair to let her lose this waltz, one of Waldteufel’s 
loveliest. Come, I ’ll present you !” 

And she swept away, the stiff ivory satin folds of her 
splendid gown brushing him as she passed on. 

** Madam is pensive to-night,” thought Clyde. The 
poison is working. She is not happy. How beautiful 
she is — how beautiful !” 

Despite the fact that her face evidently masked a 
heart ill at ease, that his subtle treachery was grad- 
ually alienating her from her husband,Vida had never 
seemed so unattainable, so spotless as to-night. Per- 
haps intensifying this impression was her white gown, 
unbroken by a single spot of color ; the pure pearls 
around her rounded throat that had such a stem-like 
grace, the huge bunch of lilies-of-the-valley in her 
hands. Above this whiteness her pale golden hair was 
like a diadem. Only the dark, deep eyes gave a hint 
of the passionate pain that gnawed and gnawed at her 
sore heart. 

Sidney went here and there among his guests. He 
talked carelessly with Clyde, and the latter was the 
soul of easy familiarity and good humor. 

“ He is like a candle shining brightest as its flame 
leaps in the socket !” thought Clyde, with inward satis- 
faction. “ But he does not know it.” 

Just before supper, Clyde, after a delicious waltz 
with Vida, found himself on the balcony with her. 
They were alone. Behind them in the crowded, 
flower-hung rooms the music sighed and sobbed, punc- 
tuated by the patter of flitting feet and the low notes 
of well-bred laughter. Before them lay the mystery 
of the dark landscape, the violet sky where Night had 
strung her jewels. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


127 

Vida’s hands were loosely clasped before her, and 
she looked far away. 

How silent she was ! How pale her pure profile was 
against the shadow ! 

Clyde longed to lift the lazily drooping hand, longed 
to press its cool whiteness to his burning lips ; but if 
he did, then adieu to this dream-fabric of a supposed 
friendship which he had so laboriously built. He must 
be watchful, cool ; he must play his part to the end — 
not far off now. 

He was startled from his satisfied dreaming by seeing 
a silvery tear roll slowly down Vida’s pale cheek and 
splash among the weblike laces on her bosom. But 
she slowly turned her head away, and when her eyes 
met his again there was no trace of it. She was the 
woman of the world, guarded, subtle, proud. 

“ Will you be surprised,” she said, slowly, “ if I ask 
you a very strange question ? And will you answer it 
without endeavoring to learn why I ask it, and how I 
come by such information as I possess ?” 

Instinctively Clyde knew she was going to speak of 
something connected with Sidney’s past. 

“If by any chance she has received an inkling of 
Allan Love’s supposed fate, I ’ll deny all knowledge of 
Raritan’s connection with it. The news of the murder 
must come on her like a thunderbolt,” he thought. 

* If I can answer your question at all, dear Mrs. Rari- 
tan,” he said, “ I promise to ask no questions.” 

“ Very well, then,” and Vida lifted her head proudly 
as she looked fully in his eyes. “ Have you ever heard 
of a woman named Aloha ?” 

The start which Clyde gave was very real. He had 
been reserving pretty Aloha Brysdale’s name as a sort 
of coup^ and it was amazing to hear the first mention 
of her between them come from Vida’s lips. 


12^ 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Clyde had as yet but slight knowledge of Aloha 
Brysdale’s life after her mysterious departure from 
Honolulu, but two facts he had put to account in a 
corner of his brain to use some day — Allan Love had 
seemed infatuated with her, and Sidney Raritan had 
been her constant companion. If Sidney had had a 
hand in Allan’s death, was Aloha Brysdale the cause ? 
He would find this out, as well as other things con- 
cerning her. He allowed his silence to make an im- 
pression on Vida. He avoided her eyes. 

“ Why don’t you speak ?” she said in a low, imperi- 
ous whisper. “ It is a simple question, and I will 
know.” 

“ Well — yes — I know Aloha,” he said reluctantly. 

“ Aloha — what ?” she asked quietly, but with a short 
breath of eagerness between the words. 

“That I cannot answer. You must not ask me 
more,” he said in a constrained tone. 

“ And why not ?” came quickly, passionately from 
Vida’s lips. “ Why may I not know this woman’s 
name ? There, you needn’t reply. I would be a fool 
indeed if I could not read between the lines. You are 
a guest in my husband’s house, and you feel a delicacy 
in betraying his secrets to his wife. Isn’t that it ?” 
And her lovely mouth was pale and drawn from the 
storm rising in her heart. 

There was no reply ; but Clyde allowed his glance 
to plunge deeply, pityingly into her upraised eyes. 

“ Why torture yourself this way ? Isn’t it better to 
let sleeping dogs lie ?” he said, in his suave, persuasive 
tones. 

“ One thing you must answer me,” she persisted. 
“ Sidney knew this Aloha ?” 

“ Yes, he did.” 

“ Where is she now ?” 


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tilE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


129 

‘ I don’t know. For pity’s sake, spare me and 
spare yourself. No good can come from tossing the 
smoldering ashes and waking a dead fire,” he 
pleaded. 

“ When did you last see this woman ?” Vida went on, 
relentlessly. 

“ Almost tw'o years ago, when she left her home in 
Honolulu and disappeared as if the ground had swal- 
lowed her.” 

“ Indeed ! Quite a little romance. And you say you 
do not know where she is now?” 

“ I haven’t an idea.” 

A slow, bitter smile spread over Vida’s face. 

“ I know where she is. If I tell you, will you seek 
her — will you let me see her — will you let me find out 
something about her ?” 

The words died on her lips. Sidney, unseen, had 
stepped over the low window, and seeing his wife in 
the shadow with Clyde Hastings, her lovely face up- 
raised almost piteously, her eyes glowing, had retreated 
as rapidly. 

“So it’s true! Vida has drifted from me!” he 
thought, as he passed down the hall to his quiet study 
and flung himself into a chair by his writing-table. “ In 
some strange way this man, whom once she hated, has 
managed to gain an ascendency over my wife’s heart. 
The look her eyes held was one of confidence, of en- 
treaty. Of what were they talking ? How dare he ? 
How dare he ? And Vida — Oh, heaven, let me not 
think what she was to me in the days of our happiness 
before this shadow came to part us !” 

Like a restive tiger, he sprang up and paced the 
room from corner to corner. His proud, manly face 
was almost livid, and a deathly moisture stood on his 
brow. 


130 


THE HOtrSE BY THE RIVER. 


“The time has come to assert myself. Even if I 
crush my own happiness to atoms, I shall crush the 
romance that blooms from the wreck of my hopes. It 
is useless to blind myself longer. Vida does not love 
me. She only seems happy when with Clyde Hast- 
ings. She shall choose between us !“ 




CHAPTER XVII. 

IN THE ARBOR. 

“ Won’t yon have one more turn — ^just one ?” 

Bebe’s partner spoke these words as he bent over 
her, an imploring look in his eyes. 

But Bebd had waltzed enough. She was tired, and 
had long ago voted the ball a bore. So she sat in the 
corner, her satin-slippered feet crossed, a frown on her 
brow. 

“ Oh, Mr. Wilkins, I really can’t ! I ’m so tired, it ’s 
an effort to lift my lids to look at you.” 

“ That ’s because your lashes are so long,” burst forth 
the young man, with cumbersome impetuosity. He 
somehow reminded Bebe of a great Newfoundland 
dog, and she had had enough of his heavy prancing. 

“ Do go and get me something cold. There ’s another 
half hour before supper, but you ’ll find cold things on 
the buffet.” 

You will stay here, right in this corner ?” 

“ In this very spot !” she promised, emphatically, 
and then only waited for the disappearance of the 
young man’s plunging back through the crowd to slip 
out of the window, down the balcony stairs into the 
cool, dark park. 

Oh, to be alone for a few moments to think her own 

[131] 



133 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


thoughts ! She had thought the ball might distract 
her, but she had never missed Felix Love so much 
as to-night, when every face she knew looked at her 
under the flashing lights, save his. 

She walked on, a tired droop to the childish figure, 
until she reached a small arbor hidden among thick 
knots and loops of vines. 

Entering this, she sank back on the rustic seat, and 
clasping her hands, pressed them hard over her eyes. 
How long ago that August night seemed when Felix 
had held her in his strong young arms, and had whis- 
pered his love for her. 

Not once had she seen him since. If he had died or 
put continents between them he could not have passed 
out of her young life more utterly. Truly, he had kept 
his vow. 

And the disgrace he had spoken of ? Every morning 
when she awoke her first thought was : 

“ It may come to-day.” 

But days and days passed, spending themselves from 
sunrise to sunset, and still no shadow fell. 

“ Was he wrong ? What if the disgrace he spoke of 
is but a mistaken idea of his ? What if he is spoiling 
both of our lives because of a dread of that which 
never may happen ? Oh, Felix, Felix ! Shall I never 
see you again ? Never.? Never ?” 

Her curved, babyish mouth trembled, and she flung 
out her arms with a sigh. A weight of sadness seemed 
pressing on her heart, a little sob broke from her, and 
the distant lights in the house were blurred by the 
burning drops that clustered on her lashes. 

.Suddenly a sound startled her. It was the striking 
of a match. Peeping through the vines^ she saw the 
outlines of a tall, youthful figure under a tree ; an- 
pther moment and the small^ sputtering light showed 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


133 


her that the intruder was in tweed riding- clothes, in- 
stead of the conventional evening dress, and that he 
was leaning against the tree trunk, in the act of light- 
ing a cigarette ; the next moment her heart leaped 
and stood still. It was Felix ! 

For a moment everything grew dim before Bebe’s 
eyes, then she clung to the trellis work and gazed at 
that silent form, as if she would never tire. From the 
black distance under the thick trees she heard a soft 
neigh, and knew her young lover had ridden all the 
way from New York, just to gaze at the windows in 
the hope of seeing her flit past. The idea of such 
romantic love thrilled her impulsive heart to its depths, 
and she could scarcely keep her lips from sobbing out 
his name. 

Again the horse’s neigh reached her. 

“ Silence, Prince, silence, old boy ! Would you be- 
tray me ?” he whispered, turning and laying his arm 
affectionately around his horse’s neck. 

What should she do ? Steal out and speak to him ? 
No, it was he who had decided that they must part. 
He had not come to see her now, only to watch her 
from afar off. She must not seek him. 

She watched him in silence while one cigarette faded 
and he lit another, his eyes continually fixed on the 
lighted windows. For a second he twirled the match 
in his fingers, then flung it carelessly away. The wind 
caught it up, and the spark, unseen by Bebe, alighted 
upon her gown. In a moment the flimsy tulle was 
ablaze. A low, muffled shriek broke from her lip^^ — 
she uttered only one word : 

“ Felix !” 

The events of the moments that followed were very 
misty to Bebe. She had a consciousness of a coat being 
wrapped around her, and of being held very fast in 


134 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


two strong arms ; she knew a voice she loved spoke 
her name again and again in tones of contrition, ten- 
derness, passion. 

Suddenly she looked up, and, unable to control the 
rush of feeling that swelled her childish heart, a sob- 
bing cry left her lips ; 

Oh — oh, I ’m so glad to see you — again !” 

“ Bebe, dear one, tell me, are you hurt at all ?” Felix 
asked, as he scanned the imprisoned wrists, his face all 
concern and gentleness. 

“ No, you Ve made a wreck of my tulle — but that ’s 
nothing. Bother the gown ! Tell me something about 
yourself,” she said, her sweet eyes seeking his shyly. 
“ Have you been in New York or far away ? Have you 
been well ? Did you come here to-night — because — 
because — ” 

“ I hoped to see you in the distance ? Yes, Beb, for 
that alone. Ah, it is good to be able to see you here 
and speak to you, for I have much to say. I was go- 
ing to write it — but how much better to say the words 
face to face.” 

She looked in amazement at the glow lighting up his 
eyes, while he leaned closer. 

“ What, Felix, what ?” came in a warm breath from 
her parted lips. 

“ I want to tell you,” he said, almost fiercely, “ that I 
was wrong, all wrong, when I spoke to you as I did 
about Sidney. I want to say I was a fool, a hot-brained 
idiot jumping to conclusions that have no substantia- 
tion ! Dear Beb, will you forgive me ? Will you ? 
Will you let me go back and begin all over again from 
the happy days we had in the little farmhouse in Can- 
ada, and before I let wild suspicions poison my mind 
against your brother ? Oh, there 's nothing I won’t do 
to show you how sorry I am for having uttered those 


THii HOUSE BV THE RiVER. 


135 


words to you — and caused you pain — my love — my lit- 
tle love !" 

Bebe could scarcely believe that the trembling de- 
light which rushed over her was real. Oh, to be there 
in the soft night, alone with Felix, and hear him utter 
golden words of hope and light which sent the shad- 
ows, that had so tormented and clouded her young life, 
flying like mists before the approach of the sun. 

“ Does Sidney know ?” she asked, in a happy whis- 
per. 

“ He knows I was mad enough to suspect him of — 
no matter what now. But that is past. To-morrow I 
will seek him, and I know he will generously accept the 
apology I ’ll offer him. Don’t you think he will, my 
darling ?” 

Yes — yes. Oh, I am so happy now. I know,” she 
said, laying her gloved hands upon her lover’s thick, 
soft hair ; “ I know now that we carry our own night 
or day in our hearts. Before you came to-night, I was 
so sad, everything seemed at a standstill, and I felt old, 
old, old ! Now it seems as if the world was overfiow- 
with joy and everyone as happy as I am.” 

“ Then, Beb, dear, you will be my wife ?” 

For answer she let her supple arm slip around his 
neck. 

“ If not your wife, Felix,” she said with a sweet 
earnestness, “ then never a wife.” 

“ My darling, nothing shall separate us ! Nothing ! 
Oh, that I may be worthy of you !” 

An hour slipped by unnoticed, and not until a step 
on the gravel disturbed the silence did the lovers start 
from their dreaming. 

“ Good night, Beb, dear, until to-morrow,” Felix 
whispered, as he gave her a hurried kiss. “ It would 
never do for me to be seen here, imitating the peri who 


136 


THE HOUSE BY THE RiVER. 


peeped into Paradise. But to-morrow all will be well. 
Good-by, dear. Good-by.” 

She watched him swing his lithe, strong body to the 
saddle and softly urge his horse through the thick trees 
fronting the road. 

It was an ecstatic moment. Love was so new, so 
sweet to little Bebe ! She thought of her lover’s words, 
his tender, impassioned caresses, and of the radiant 
promise the future held for her. Oh, how wonder- 
ful ! How wonderful ! To think that a man loved her, 
little Bebe Raritan, like that, when only six months 
ago she had been led to believe that the most import- 
ant thing in life was the French verb ! She knew 
better now. 

Gathering up the charred masses of tulle, she laughed 
softly and ran on toward the house. 

“That dear match!” she said. “ Why, if the spark 
hadn’t been obliging enough to set me on fire, I might 
have let him go away without betraying my hiding- 
place, and cried myself to sleep as usual.” 

She reached her room, after passing one of the maids, 
who, leaning over the balustrade, was watching the 
brilliant scene the great square hall below presented. 

“ Hortense, go down and tell Mrs. Raritan not to be 
surprised at my absence at supper. I have torn my 
gown in the garden, and feel like going to bed.” 

“ Very well, miss. But couldn’t I mend it for you ?” 

“ Oh, no, no !” said Bebe, emphatically, dexterously 
crushing the fabric in her hands, so that the charred 
ends were hidden ; while inwardly she whispered : 
“ I ’ll never part with this gown. I ’ll keep it, burned 
and all, just as it is. Ah, that lucky match !” 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

A DISCOVERY. 

When Felix was well out of sight, and Bebe had dis- 
appeared within the house, that step upon the gravel- 
walk, which had ceased rather mysteriously, was ex- 
plained. Monsieur Oudry rose suddenly from the 
shrubbery growing close against the arbor, and a long, 
low whistle left his lips. 

“ So the wind lies that way, does it ?” he muttered, 
as he lazily flecked the dust his knees had gathered. 
“ If things are as I gravely suspect with my silent 
client in the little house down there by the river, the 
love-making of these young fools is apt to come to 
rather a dramatic close. I wonder what he ’ll say when 
I tell him that Felix Love is to marry the sister of 
the man he hates so bitterly ! I wonder what he ’ll 
say ?” 

He lit a cigar and strolled leisurely down the path 
to the great gates opening on the wide, white road. 

“I dare not venture farther. vShould Raritan need 
his valet he must be at hand, and this infernal ball 
can’t last much longer.” 

He strolled to a stone wall, and lightly stepping to 
its highest sweep, peered down among the trees. Be- 
low, faint and eerie, could be seen a light in the dusty 
windows of the house by the river. 


[137] 


138 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ He waits for me. Good heavens, how he thirsts 
for news ! How impatient he is of delay ! He hopes 
every day to hear that Sidney Raritan has been dis- 
graced. He pins his faith on Hastings. But nothing 
happens. Raritan goes his way as frankly as if there 
was nothing on his soul to make him dread meeting 
any man’s eye ; and Clyde Hastings — a w’olf in sheep’s 
clothing, if ever there was one — is very busy worming 
his way into the confidence of the lovely, unsuspicious 
mistress of Applethorpe. Ah, well, it ’s a pretty little 
game — and between my friend in the river house and 
such a cold-blooded plotter as Mr.Clyde Hastings, it will 
be strange if Sidney Raritan doesn’t find himself in a 
terrible position before many days.” 

^‘Mas’r Griggs — Mas’r Griggs!” the hoarse whis- 
pered call, coming as from a man out of breath, pierced 
the dead silence of the place ; and Griggs, lifting his 
head as a pointer does trying to place a scent, saw old 
Remus hidden in the leafy turning of the road and 
beckoning to him furiously. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, sharply ; for if it 
had been possible for a black face to be drenched of 
its color Griggs would have seen that Remus was 
livid. 

“ Oh, mas’r, come with me ! I done think Mr. Fair- 
leigh’s daid — yas’r ! I done think he ’s knocked clean 
over. He lies there ’thout sayin’ a word, no matter 
how hard I shake him ! Oh, sir, I can’t stay there 
alone with him, and think he may be daid. You ’ll 
know what to do, sar — yas’r. Do come ! Do come 1” 

Griggs went ahead of the stumbling, faithful old 
man, and reaching the house by the river, found the 
door above the well-worn step standing wide open. 

In the distant darkness of the hall the dying embers 
of a fire could be seen, shedding a fitful, slumberous 


THE HOUSE BV THE RIVER. 


139 


glow, and making the shadows intensely deep by con- 
trast. 

The door leading into Mr. Fairleigh’s study was 
closed, but on opening it an impressive scene met 
Theodore Griggs’s eyes. On the table lay old letters, 
which had only lately been reread, a few daguerre- 
otypes and faded cartes de visile. The chair at the table 
had been violently pushed back, and lay overthrown 
upon the floor, and the tall candles burning on the 
mantel threw their long rays on the figure of the 
strange being he served, prone on the floor, the long, 
sheltering robe wrapped closely about it, and the face, 
as usual, hidden by the hood. 

Why, he's lying on his face !” cried the detective. 
“ It 's a wonder he doesn’t smother !” and he darted 
toward him. 

“ Let me — let me do it !” cried old Remus. “ No- 
body must see his poor, burned face but me ; nobody 
must touch him but ole Remus. Oh, is he daid — daid ?” 

“ Let me lay my hand on his heart,” said Griggs, 
following the negro ; and through the thick cloth he 
could feel it beating faintly. He has swooned. I 
wonder why ? Do you know anything about it ? What 
has he been doing to-night ? Reading old letters ? 
Possibly he came upon some that affected him deeply. 
Anything else ? Speak up now ! I have your master’s in- 
terests at heart, and details of this sort must not be hid- 
den from me, if I am to serve him properly. What has he 
done to-night ? I can see you know something. Speak !” 

Remus for a moment looked undecided and troubled. 

“ ’Twas jes’ this,” he said, at last, his voice broken. 

Mas’r Fairleigh sat readin’ one letter after another, 
and at las’ he jumped up and struck his hands together. 
‘ I can’t stand this !’ he said. ‘ I ’ll strangle if I stay here 
another minute !’ With that, he got up and went out.” 


140 


THE ttOtJSE BY ttlE BlVER. 


“ Went out ? Does he ever do that ?” 

‘‘Very seldom, sar, an’ only when it ’slong- past mid- 
night, and sometimes only around the garden. But 
to-night, I think all he ’d been bearin’ of that thar big 
ball up at the big house kind of onsettled him, and, 
the poor dear, he couldn’t stay here in the stillness, 
nohow. Sometimes he gits mighty fretful — yas ’r, he 
cries like a child.” 

“ How long ago was it since he went out ?” 

“ Not more ’n half an hour or so. He wasn’t gone 
fifteen minutes, when he came, sank down on the sofa, 
wringing his hands — the nex’ moment he rolled over 
on the floor, and no matter how much I called him, he 
wouldn’t make no answer. Then I was ’fraid he was 
daid — and went for you.” 

“ He appeared frightened when he came in ?” 

“Sort o’ breathless, and called out — ” old Remus 
paused, and set his lips firmly. 

“You are holding something back. What did he 
say ? Speak up, I tell you ! I must know — or I can’t 
help him !” 

“ I cayn’t tell jes’ what he said, ’twas so mufiled 
like and all as if he were chokin’,” said the old man, 
stubbornly turning his face away. 

“ You do know, Remus. If you tell me — ” 

“ I cayn’t tell you, sar. You wouldn’t understand. 
’T was jest a name.” 

At that moment a weary, quivering wail came from 
the unhappy man’s lips. 

“ Felix ! Felix ! I want you ! Oh, Felix, my son ! 
my son !” 

It was in vain that Remus tried to silence that cry of 
longing from a full heart. It echoed through the room, 
full of agony, full of insistent yearning. 

“Felix, my son !” 


The house by the river. 


141 


Theodore Griggs only nodded, and his eyes grew 
more inscrutable. 

“ He was prowling around the grounds at Apple- 
thorpe, and he saw Felix Love. That knocked him 
over. So he has a heart ? Yes, and his son holds every 
inch of it.” 

“ He 's movin’ a little. I wonder ef he ’d take some 
brandy ?” 

Griggs sat down at the writing-table and pretended 
to be busy with a letter. 

“ By all means, get him some brandy,” he said, still 
busily writing, and without glancing over his shoulder. 

Remus hesitated for a moment whether to leave the 
prostrate figure there at the mercy of the detective’s 
curiosity ; but Griggs’s appearance of remoteness and 
earnestness in his task decided him, and he hobbled 
quickly from the room. 

Without permitting ^ second’s delay, Griggs was on his 
knees and had lifted the cloth from the face until the 
candlelight played weirdly on all the exposed features. 

He started back, his healthy face grown a ghastly 
hue, his eyes full of unspeakable horror. 

“ Heavens !”he cried, groping his way blindly to his 
chair and sinking into it. “ So that is his secret ? It 
is more horrible than I fancied. Oh, I never dreamed 
of — that!'" For a few moments he sat as if stunned. 

When old Remus returned, even his shrewd eyes 
saw nothing strange in the detective’s face. Theodore 
Griggs had learned to control all signs of emotion. 

“ I never dreamed of — that !” he said again, below 
his breath. “ I guessed before to-night that he was 
Allan Love, and he wants to be considered dead for 
the sake of revenge. I know the whole story now !” 
And he shuddered. “ Dead ? Better if he were ! Oh, 
better a thousand times !” 



CHAPTER XIX. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

Another week had passed, bringing few changes. 
Sidney had decided to be patient, not to judge too 
quickly, and to try by various acts of kindness to heal 
the breach between himself and Vida. 

He feared to mention Clyde Hastings’s name be- 
tween them. How bitterly he might some day regret 
his quick wrath should he rush into the dissension his 
jealousy prompted ! Perhaps he had not been as lover- 
like with Vida of late as he should have been. The 
claims of business kept him from home a great deal, 
and he had perhaps fallen into that fault of husbands — 
of taking his happiness so much for granted that a con- 
tinued expression of his love and contentment had 
seemed unnecessary. 

Yes, he might be to blame. Doubtless he was, to a 
great extent. It was such a familiar story — a young 
and beautiful wife, fancying her husband’s love cool- 
ing, endeavoring to fill her life with innocent excite- 
ment and the admiration of other men. 

A dangerous game to play with a man like Clyde 
Hastings — a game where Folly and Vanity watched 
the fortunes of the opponents. But Vida might very 
naturally not realize the serious nature of it, nor dream 
how deeply she was paining him. 

The result of these musings made him adopt a 
[142] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


143 


cheery, satisfied manner he was far from feeling, and 
when he entered the breakfast-room a few mornings 
after the ball, Vida was amazed at his light-hearted- 
ness. 

“ It matters very little whether I am cold and formal 
with him,” she thought, her heart throbbing painfully. 
“ Probably the explanation of his happy face lies in the 
fact that he has had another letter from his London 
correspondent. Oh, why, why can’t I hate him for his 
cool perfidy ? Why am I in torture all day long, my 
heart asking but the one question : ‘ Does he love her 
still ?’ But I will not always remain in the dark about 
this affair of his life. Clyde Hastings knows all, I am 
convinced, and from him I will learn the truth. I will 
lead him on, I will use all the arts of coquetry and 
finesse — but the secret of my husband’s life I shall win 
from him, and very soon.” 

Sidney bent over her shoulder. 

‘‘ Beb is not down yet — won’t you kiss me good 
morning, dear ?” he asked in the deep, questioning 
tones that still thrilled her, in spiteof her stormy heart. 

She turned a cool cheek to him without meeting his 
eyes. Sidney hid his pain, and gently, deliberately laid 
his hand beneath her chin until he had compelled her 
gaze to meet his. The reproach in his eyes was like a 
stab, and he kissed her gently on the lips. 

I have some pleasant news for Bebe,” he said, as he 
seated himself at the table. “ Ah, here she is, so one 
telling of it will be sufficient.” 

“ Good morning, good people !” cried Bebe, darting 
into the room, a lovely picture in a morning-gown of 
blue, which set off the radiant color in her cheeks. “ Am 
I very late ? But please, please, don’t be shocked at 
my lazy habits, for I ’m so much better than I ever ex- 
pected to be.” 


144 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Indeed ? And what delightful errors had you 
planned for yourself, minx ?” asked Sidney. 

Why, at school I fully made up my mind that when 
I came out in the world, in society, I would copy all 
the French countesses I read of, and have my morning 
chocolate in bed. Oh, it seemed a delightful idea, to 
think of the maid entering with a silver tray on which 
was set a little service, a bunch of violets and the morn- 
ing mail, all — ” 

“ All the letters, of course, containing protestations 
of undying affection from numerous admirers ?” 

“Of course ! And, oh, I expected to be very, very 
cold to him. It seemed so aristocratic and queenly to 
be very stand-offish and chilling — though they died at 
my feet for want of one kind glance !” she said, with 
melodramatic fervor. 

Vida gave a little laugh. 

“ You didn’t begin by keeping your word, did you, 
Beb ? As witness, your warm appreciation of Felix 
Love !” 

The color flew more deeply into Bebd’s cheeks, and 
a shadow fell across her eyes. 

Never since the day they first saw him at Del- 
monico’s had Vida mentioned his name before Sidney. 
No wonder Bebe was startled. But Vida had pur- 
posely spoken of him now. Felix Love was a link in 
the chain that held Sidney to that secret past of which 
she burned to know — which she must know — and she 
wanted to watch what effect the suddenly spoken 
name would have on him. 

it was her turn to be surprised, for Sidney, with ji 
covert glance of amusement at Bebe, said, calmly : 

“ My news for Bebd was about this very young map. 
I had a long talk with him on the floor of the Exchange, 
yesterday. I want to bring him home to dinner to-night.” 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


145 


Vida sat like a stone. 

“ I thought you and he were unfriendly,” she said 
in a colorless tone. 

“We were. It was all Hastings’s doing. Felix has 
had his eyes opened to the truth. In fact, dearest, the 
boy and I patched the matter up finely. I like him. 
He ’s a frank, whole-souled young chap. If I had a 
sister who was a bit interested in him, I would speak 
a good word for him any day,” said Sidney, with sus- 
picious gravity. “ But as I haven’t — ” 

A sudden rush and two arms fast locked around his 
neck prevented any further words from his lips. 
Bebe was embracing him like a young bear. 

“ You ’re — you ’re — a love — a brick — you ’re the dear- 
est fellow in the world !” she said, her lovely face aglow 
with delight. 

“ With one exception, of course — Mr. Felix Love !” 

“ Not even he ! No, indeed ! Oh, Sid, I do love 
you !” and she kissed him with all her heart. 

Vida was mystified. She seemed more in the dark 
than ever. Without tasting the food, she sat busily 
toying with a bit of toast, her thoughts in a ferment. 

After breakfast Sidney surprised her in her boudoir. 
She was sitting against the lace-curtained window, her 
elbow on her knee, looking out at the horizon, where a 
line of low hills trailed. She did not hear him enter, 
and he was impressed by the despair, the loneliness of 
her attitude, by the pallor of the lovely profile. 

“Vida dear,” he said, softly, and she started almost 
guiltily as he approached, a look almost of resentment 
in her dark eyes, “ I think you are not looking quite 
yourself, darling. I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do. You and 
I h^ve not had a tete-a-tiHe adventure in a long time,” 
he ^aid, sitting beside her, and slipping his arm around 
her waist. “ See here, now ? Suppose you come into 


146 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


town to-day — down town, where the money is made^ 
and we go to lunch at the Lawyers’ Club. In the after- 
noon, as it ’s the first matMe of the operatic season, 
and Jean de Reske plays Faust, let ’s take a hansom up 
to the opera house in true Bohemian style. Will you, 
dear ? Will you ?” 

Vida felt a mist of tears rising within her. Her hand 
trembling in his. Such pleasure as he described would 
be delightful if confidence existed between them ; but 
now, while she doubted, while her passionate heart 
was torn by pain and fears, a ghost would sit beside 
them and poison the joy of the otherwise happy day. 

Sidney was surprised to see the tears rising into her 
eyes, while her lips remained mute. 

“ Vida !” he said, in a voice of pain, and, laying down 
his hat, which he had taken preparatory to departure, 
he seized her in a yearning clasp, and tried to draw her 
to his breast. 

But she resisted, and before he dreamed of her in- 
tention, she had slipped to the ground and laid her 
head upon his knee, sobbing as if her heart would 
break. 

“ What is it, my darling ? Speak — trust me, dear. 
Something is troubling you — I have known it for a long 
time. Do tell me all. Your grief, whatever it is, will 
be lighter if I share it. Oh, my wife, my dear wife, 
my one love, speak — speak !” Sidney pleaded, as he 
smoothed the golden head bowed before him. 

But the storm subsided almost at birth. Her hus- 
band’s tender words, his compassionate tone jarred 
upon her and roused her pride, fully armed. 

She thought of the letter signed 

‘‘Fondly, Aloha.” 

She thought of Clyde Hastings’s hints at a secret in 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


U1 

her husband’s life. Oh, he should be kneeling before 
her praying for forgiveness or confessing his sin in 
broken tones, and she should be the sympathizer, the 
judge. 

With a hard, uneasy laugh she started up, and dashed 
the tears away. 

“ What a piece of folly !” she said with a shrug. 
“ Sidney, we women are very queer creatures, are we 
not ? We weep for nothing — and when real trouble 
comes we teach men how to be strong.” 

She moved to the dressing-table and lifted her 
hands to her hair, arranging a stray tress more care- 
fully. 

“ Then your tears meant nothing more than that 
your nerves were a little out of order ?” questioned 
Sidney, standing up and looking at her with grave, 
loving eyes. 

‘‘Nothing more,” said Vida lightly. 

But Sidney was not satisfied. There had been an- 
guish in that stormy sobbing, and he had felt as if on 
the brink of some revelation. 

“ Dearest,” he said, “ tell me — you are perfectly 
happy ! Are you ?” 

“ I am — happy,” she said. “ Are you ?” 

She turned and faced him, a mocking smile on her 
lips. 

“ I should be an ingrate if I were not,” said Sidney. 
“ Do 1 not love you with heart and mind, body and 
spirit — are you not mine ? That alone, without any of 
the smiles of Fortune, would be enough to transform 
my life to heaven.” 

He paused, and his gaze was all of love. 

“ I have felt, lately, Vida, that there was not that 
perfect confidence between us which we had at first ;” 
he took both her hands and his glance was earnest 


148 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


almost to pain. “ I beg that you will not let any trifle 
mar our happy life. If you have any fault to find with 
me, tell me of it. Don’t nurse it in your heart. If any- 
thing troubles you, come to me. Give me your confi- 
dence as I know I have your heart.” 

“ Have I your confidence ?” asked Vida, slowly, and 
her pulses began to throb heavily. “ Think ! Is there 
nothing in your life that confession would make 
lighter — nothing that I ought to know ?” 

She misinterpreted the pallor that grew around 
Sidney’s lips to a sign of conscious guilt, despite his 
words. 

“ There is nothing in my life to trouble or shame 
me — nothing !” 

“ But one’s life may be all wrong, and yet one might 
feel no twinges as a result. That, you know, is largely 
a matter of conscience. One man makes his living by 
murder ; another writhes in agony for a wicked 
thought,” she said, her cheeks suddenly burning, her 
eyes defiant. 

“ My conscience is a very troublesome one, or would 
be if I gave it reason, no matter what you may think, 
Vida, to the contrary,” said Sidney, sternly, his heart 
contracting at her glance and words. “ I hide no 
guilty secret.” 

“Yet,” she continued, “what of that secret which 
almost separated us before our marriage ?” 

There was a moment’s silence between them. 

“You promised to bury all memory of that. You 
urged me to stay when I would have gone away and 
cleared myself of the faintest suspicion,” was Sidney’s 
reply. “ I can no more explain it now than then. 
You were willing to take me on faith in those happy 
days. Why not now ?” And he held out his arms. 

“ Mysteries are very pleasant in books. I can’t say 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


149 


I fancy them in real life.” And ignoring his loving 
gesture, she turned from him. 

Just then Bebd came tripping into the room, and Sid- 
ney, seeing that the time was past for further words on 
the subject, took up his hat again. 

“ By the way, Vida,” he said, in a constrained tone, 

“ do you care to lunch down town and go to the opera, 
as I suggested ?” 

“ Thank you very much, dear,” she said, with a pro- . 
yoking smile ; ‘‘ but unfortunately I have an engage- 
ment for this afternoon.” 

Yes ?” 

“ I am going for a ride with Mr. Hastings.” 

Sidney turned on his heel and left the room without 
another word 




CHAPTER XX. 

^ MORNING INTERVIEW. 

But his mind was made up. The time had come for 
action. Sidney swore in his heart that Clyde Hastings 
would not ride beside his wife that afternoon, and that 
the friendship daily strengthening at the cost of her 
trust in him should be stopped at once. 

The coachman who drove him to the station noticed 
his pale, stern face, and wondered what had gone 
wrong. The passengers who sat opposite him in the 
train saw plainly that he was far from his surroundings 
in thought, and the thoughts were far from pleasant. 

Instead of going far down town on the elevated train, 
he alighted at a street in the Fifties, and soon found 
himself on Fifth Avenue. 

‘‘ Half-past eleven. He is up by this time, I sup- 
pose," thought Sidney. And he entered a large apart- 
ment house on the corner where Clyde had his luxurious 
bachelor home. 

He was still at his breakfast when his visitor was an- 
nounced, and sprang up with every appearance of 
friendly welcome. 

Ah, Raritan, who 'd have dreamed of seeing you 
around these diggings so early ? Have some coffee 
with me." 

[150] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


151 


His quick eye had read Sidney’s face aright, and he 
was quite prepared for his next words. 

“ My mission, Mr. Hastings, is not a pleasant one. 
No, thank you, I will not sit down. I have only a few 
words to say and but a moment to say them in.” 

“ Nothing wrong at Applethorpe, I hope ?” and Clyde 
paused in lighting his cigarette. 

“There seems to be more wrong at Applethorpe than 
I can understand, since you began visiting there,” said 
Sidney, in a low, distinct, ringing voice. “ You under- 
stand me ? I want to tell you that I no longer be- 
lieve in your friendship for me, nor that you think 
you did me a wrong in the past. I believe you took 
that way of entering my home and trying to destroy 
my peace.” 

“ Why, have I done so ? I was not aware of it. Aren’t 
you alarming yourself unnecessarily ?” and Clyde 
looked almost languid, as he leaned back. 

“You have not succeeded as yet — and you shall not. 
I shall see to that, you may be sure,” and Sidney’s 
voice was hoarse with passion. “ I was a fool to be- 
lieve in you. Since the day you first entered my home, 
a coldness has come over my wife’s manner to me 
that can only be explained one way. Your lies have 
poisoned her mind against me — your lies — do you 
hear ?” 

“ I hear quite well. Go on.” 

“ 1 had not meant to say this much. My definite 
command is simple. You need not present yourself at 
Applethorpe this afternoon to accompany Mrs. Raritan 
on her ride, for I shall be there to go with her, if she 
wishes it, and I don’t want you. More than that, I 
will not permit your visits at my home in the future !” 

He went to the door, and when his hand was on the 
knob, Clyde’s voice arrested him. 


152 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ You ’ve been very kind to come out of your way 
to save me the trouble of a ride uptown. I won’t for- 
get it. Good morning.” 

But while the words were being spoken, Sidney’s 
eye had caught sight of a portrait lying on the dis- 
ordered desk. For a moment he thought he was 
surely the victim of a burning fancy, for Vida’s deli- 
cate coloring was reproduced on that disc of porcelain 
by an artist hand. 

Before Clyde was aware of his intention he had 
crossed to where it lay, and was gazing at it with 
stormy, haggard eyes. 

Yes, it was Vida, and this painting was a reproduc- 
tion of a photograph taken very recently. 

The beating of their hearts could be heard as the 
two men looked at each other. Then Sidney lifted 
the delicate thing and sent it crashing to the hearth- 
stone, where he ground it to fragments beneath his heel. 

With a cry that was like a snarl, Clyde started up, his 
hands clenched, a torrent of insensate oaths leaving 
his quivering lips. 

“ Strike me,” said Sidney, calmly, and I ’ll kill you !” 

The words seemed to calm Clyde’s passion to iciness, 
and a sneering smile curled his lips. 

“ Who ’s had the better part of this little scene this 
morning, you or I ?” he asked. “ Why should I strike 
you ?” 

“ Perhaps you think I fear you. It would be easy to 
combat you, Mr. Clyde Hastings, if one stooped to use 
your weapons — treachery, revenge, duplicity. Even 
without those I will conquer, and I advise you to keep 
out of my life unless you want to taste defeat.” 

For some moments after Sidney’s departure, Clyde 
sat gazing steadfastly at the fragments of porcelain 
strewing the hearth. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


15^ 


Three hundred dollars thrown away for that minia- 
ture ! Well, no matter ! To see his face blanch and 
his lips tremble when he caught sight of that pictured 
face was worth a good deal more — yes, by Heaven, a 
good deal — worth every penny I possess !” 

He rang the bell violently. 

“ More coffee, Antoine.” 

While sipping the hot, black fluid, he sat absolutely 
silent, and what his reveries were might be guessed 
from the cold, evil light in his narrowed eyes. 

“ A telegram, sir,” said Antoine, entering again, with 
the yellow square of paper in his hand. 

Clyde started from his dreaming, and tore the 
envelope open with trembling eagerness. 

Everything ready. Watch for Wednesday or Thursday 
morning. Markby." 

“ Good ! What a treasure the man is ! What grit ! 
What nerve !” Clyde muttered, as he sprang up, and 
commenced pacing up and down the room. 

What did he see in fancy ? Some lonely spot in a 
far-away, western wilderness, a black pool, where frogs 
piped their eerie chorus at the death of day — silence 
everywhere, except for the raucous cries of vultures 
wheeling against the blue sky visible above the tall, 
slender trunks of pines. And what else ? Was there 
no human creature there — no face — no form ? Yes, 
surely, there in the deepest shadow, where the grass 
was longest in the slimy pool and the shadows thickest, 
something floated — something horrible, uncanny — 
something with only a passing resemblance to a man 
— a drowned body, with blurred features, its sodden 
rags bearing a mark that proclaimed it was once 
Allan Love. 

Oh, a ghastly cause for joy, truly ! Clyde Hastings 
could never have accomplished the fraud himself. 


154 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


But Markby, whose God was money, and who seemed 
to have been created without a heart — he had suc- 
ceeded. 

He was once an army doctor, and had made a 
specialty of knowledge concerning acids and poisons. 
He knew how to give a newly-dead body the semblance 
of decay — a month’s residence in the sluggish waters 
bearing out the ghastly truth. As for the rest — that 
was easy. The mutilation of the water-soaked cloth- 
ing having faint initials somewhere to identify the 
body, needed only the efforts of a master in swindling. 

Everything was ready. 

“We shall hear of it here on Wednesday night or 
Thursday morning. And this is Monday ; there is but 
one night between. I must see Vida before then. Ah, 
yes, of course— she will doubtless be at Mrs. Frank- 
land’s ball on Wednesday night. I ’ll carry out my 
original plan — then.” 

A moment later he threw out his arms and laughed. 

“ Forbidden to ride with her to-day ! Very well. 
Forbidden to enter her home in future ! Very well. 
What matters it ? Soon her home will be my home, 
and Finis will have been written to Sidney Raritan’s 
career. It ’s likely he ’ll be sent to prison for life, as 
the evidence won’t be absolutely convincing after this 
lapse of time ; but it ’s more than probable he will es- 
cape that by killing himself. An old grudge — one of 
long standing — will be paid, and the woman I have 
always loved will be m}^ wife.” 

If Clyde Hastings made an attempt to justify his 
treachery to himself it was by saying that he did not 
believe Sidney Raritan worthy the love of a woman 
like Vida, as, despite all lack of positive proof, he con- 
sidered him the murderer of Allan Love. In his opin- 
ion, Markby, through fraud, was bringing a real offender 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


155 


to justice. He believed that the end condoned the 
means employed. 

Meanwhile, after leaving the house, Sidney had gone 
direct to the office of a steamship company, and had 
engaged passage for himself and Vida on the following 
Thursday. It was a peremptory action, perhaps, and 
quite different from Sidney’s usual method with Vida. 
Now she was to have no choice — she must go with him 
— she would go if she loved him at all — and he would 
never be content until he had put the ocean between 
her and the man who was secretly trying to ruin their 
lives. 

Besides they had long talked of a trip to Europe. 
Then why not go now when it suited his plans so well ? 
Beb^ could be left with his mother’s sister in Washing- 
ton, Applethorpe could be closed, and they need not 
return for a year at least. His business affairs had 
never been in better hands or better taken care of. 

He reached Applethorpe just as the maid was an- 
nouncing luncheon, and Vida was startled to see him 
enter — startled by his worn, young face bearing the 
marks of sudden and deep sadness. 

“ Oh, you are back early,” cried Bebe. “ Is Felix 
coming to dinner just the same ?” 

Like one awakening from sleep, Sidney passed his 
hand over his face. 

“ Poor Beb, I quite forgot.” 

“ Forgot about Felix !” pouted Bebe. “ Then I know 
what I ’ll do — I ’ll send Ruggles down on horseback 
with a note to him. May I ?” 

“ Certainly, dear ; anything you like.” 

Luncheon was rather a silent meal. Before the serv- 
ants a strained conversation was kept up, but it was 
easy to see that something was troubling Sidney. Even 
Beb6 became silent. 


156 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


When, at length, Vida was alone with him, she turned 
and looked anxiously into his eyes. 

“ What 's the matter, Sidney ? You look Kke a man 
who has received a blow,” she said, a tremble in her 
soft, velvety tones. 

“ No matter. Do not ask me, Vida,” he said, quietly. 
“ But I want to tell you this — Clyde Hastings must 
never again cross the threshold of this house — and you 
will come with me to Europe on Thursday.” 

She grew white to the lips. 

“You have quarreled with Clyde Hastings ?” 

“ I have told him my opinion of him. Let his name 
never be mentioned between us again.” 

A pain like a needle shot through Vida’s heart, and 
she grew white and cold. Something in Sidney’s face 
awed and stilled her. 

He did not touch her hand. There was none of the 
old love in his attitude or glance ; only a calm more 
sad than passionate reproaches. 

“You will be ready to go with me on Thursday. It 
will be best so. Believe me when I tell you. It will 
be best.” 

“Yes, I will go,” she answered, and love was very 
strong in her heart as she spoke. 

If she could only have back the old faith ! If she 
had never listened to Clyde Hastings ! If she had 
never seen that name — Aloha ! 

“ I will try to believe him. I will help him. He 
looked wounded to the heart. Oh, Sidney, I will be- 
lieve you, my love !” 




CHAPTER XXL 

IMPRISONED. 

The wintry dusk was deepening with surprising swift- 
ness as Felix Love rode rapidly on toward Applethorpe. 
Already the west was a mass of cold purple, and in the 
tawny gloom above a few stars had gathered. 

There was something in the poise of his head, in the 
satisfied glow in his eyes, which spoke of exultation. 
He had travelled over these roads so often before, but 
never with the joy in his heart that now welled there — 
never with the prospect before him of seeing Bebe 
freely, openly, of spending hours with her in her own 
home, which he entered as a lover. 

No fears, no doubts troubled his young heart. Once 
having decided that his suspicions of Sidney Raritan 
were an insult to the man, and realizing that no tangi- 
ble proof connected him with his father’s disappear- 
ance, he had been quick to admit his mistake and ask 
pardon for his unjust suspicions. 

Meanwhile his father’s fate remained a mystery. 
Every attempt at finding a clue resulted in a silence as 
complete as death. No one had seen Allan Love after 
that snowy night when he went away with Sidney 
Raritan ; no one had heard from him. 


t‘57] 


158 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Could a man live and so completely seclude himself ? 
The joy in Felix's heart subsided a little as he pon- 
dered upon that question. Would he ever know, or 
would the maddening, terrible word “ missing ” forever 
overhang his mysterious fate ? 

“ Who knows,” thought Felix, with sudden, obstinate 
hopefulness, perhaps some unforeseen trifle, some 
strange turning of the wheel of destiny may reveal all 
that now seems so inexplicable. I feel sure that some- 
how or other I will one day hear of my father, or stand 
face to face with him again.” 

Putting away the perplexing problem, he let himself 
dwell on his love for Bebe, on what their lives would 
be together. 

Hope, confidence, passion, reverence, were all in that 
young vision which fired his brain and heart, and he 
felt he had never known the meaning of life until 
now, when his happiness was bound securely and en- 
tirely in one small pair of hands. 

He looked at his watch as he entered the road 
which, about half a mile distant, led past Applethorpe. 
It needed ten minutes of six. 

Provoking ! They did not dine until seven, and he 
would probably reach the house at a most inconvenient 
time — perhaps when Bebe was at her toilet. 

To kill an intervening twenty minutes he took a 
circuitous path that, deep in shadow, skirted a small 
river, which reflected the varied colors of the evening 
sky. 

For a long way the path was .singularly deserted, 
and only the regular beat of his horse’s footfalls broke 
the evening calm. 

“ To think,” mused Felix, “ that this place is really 
a suburb of the big town that lies to the south, a 
wilderness of brick and stone, filled with the turmoil 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


159 


of traffic. One might as well be in the very heart of 
a mountain solitude. Not a house in sight, not a 
sound of life, no movement but the sway of the 
branches and the soft, velvety flow of the river — 
What 's that ?” 

The last words came in a low, dazed exclamation, 
as Felix, holding his horse well in, leaned forward and 
peered into the darkness at a figure which had crossed 
the path to the bank beyond. 

There was something so uncanny about the muffled 
form, he felt his blood grow thin and cold. It was as 
if a ghost had put on dark, heavy, formless folds to 
match the darkness in which it moved. 

The figure stood just back of a large tree, and Felix 
saw the draped arm raised, the cowl lifted a little. 
But what lay beyond he could not tell. No feature 
was disclosed, and the light of the eyes, if eyes there 
were, was hidden. 

As he paused curiously, the figure gave a start and 
a strange, strangled sort of wail. The sound not only 
made the listener’s heart quicken with that haunting, 
inexpressible power of the mysterious, but his horse 
gave a violent leap, a snort, and then, with rearing 
head and straining mouth, leaped forward. 

Felix realized that the moment was full of peril. 
He forgot all about the monk-like traveller, and bent 
all his strength to the taming of his now thoroughly 
frightened horse. It was useless ; the nervous, blooded 
creature had flung off all control, and, with the bit 
securely between its teeth, tore wildly on. 

Just ahead lay the pasture where he and Beb had 
had their never-tO'be-forgotten twilight talk in August, 
and the stile separating it from the road was now a 
serious barrier to further progress. In vain Felix 
tried to twist his feet from the stirrups and jump, 


160 the HOHsH by the river. 

even at the risk of his neck. He was firmly in the 
saddle when the horse, at full tilt, rushed against the 
bars, only to be flung backward. Horse and rider 
went down, and Felix felt himself hurled with cruel 
force against a rock to the right hand. 

He tried to rise, although the swimming pain in his 
head blinded him, but fell back, his last conscious 
knowledge being that the horse’s hoof had struck his 
shoulder and chest, as he turned to bound away in the 
other direction. 

Not more than twenty minutes had passed when a 
stumbling old man came toward the spot where he lay, 
looking eagerly to the right and left. At sight of 
Felix lying with upturned face, the marks of blood 
and dust on throat and cheek, a quivering cry of glad- 
ness and fear broke the silence. 

“ ’Yas, ’t is Mas’r Felix! Daid ? No, but mighty 
neah it !” and old Remus — for it was he — bent over the 
silent body. 

“ Drag him into the shade of the trees quickly ! 
There ’s some one coming !” said a peremptory voice 
from the sheltered bank opposite. 

“ Yas ’r,” answered Remus. 

“ Now go as fast as your legs can carry you and get 
Griggs. Get him out here on whatever pretext you 
like ; but don’t come back without him.”. 

The men whose voices had been heard came on, 
laughing and smoking, not dreaming that behind the 
trees at the entrance to the meadow lay an unconscious 
man, guarded by an old negro and on the other side by 
a shrouded form, which seemed as devoid of life as the 
tree against which he leaned. 

As soon as the way was clear, old Remus hurried to 
Applethorpe, and in twenty minutes returned with the 
detective. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


161 


“ See here, Fairleigh, it will never do summoning me 
this way whenever you take the whim. Remember I 
I ’m paid wages over there in my role as valet, and I 
have a few duties to perform. Mr. Raritan doesn’t 
think me sufficiently beautiful to hand out his shekels 
just to have me in the house as a sort of ornament. 
Now, what is it ?” 

“ Didn’t Remus tell you ?” 

“ Oh, he was muttering something about Felix Love 
and a horse running away — ” 

“ Look there,” said the tenant of the house by the 
river. And following the inclined arm, Griggs saw the 
senseless figure, the white face of Felix Love. 

“Good heavens! Unconscious! How in thunder 
are we going to get him to Applethorpe ?. They ’re 
waiting dinner for them over by this time.” 

“ He ’s not going to Applethorpe.” 

“ No ! What — why — ” 

“ Please don’t waste words asking questions, Griggs. 
I want you and Remus to lift him — to my home.” 

“ The deuce you do ! And what i i thunder are you 
going to do with him when you get him there ?” 

“ Your tone is an insult. Your suspicions are absurd. 
Are you a fool ? I ’d see you dead, and twenty like 
you, rather than have a hair of this boy’s head injured. 
Do you understand ?” And the words came thickly, 
passionately. “I knew his father — w//,” Mr. Fairleigh 
added, as if explaining his enthusiasm. 

“ I ’ll wager you did, and no one knew him better,” 
was Griggs’s thought. “ Well, I suppose, as I ’m under 
your orders, I must obey and ask no questions — at least 
at present. Come on, Remus.” 

Between them they lifted the well-knit lithe figure 
and bore it to the silent house on the river bank. 

The settled blackness of a chill night was brooding 


162 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


over the land as they carrid Felix in. How many days 
would dawn and die, nights come and go, ere he 
stepped from those doors again ! 

“ Not here — not near me,” said Mr. Fairleigh. “ Take 
him upstairs to the room in the attic.” 

It was with chill grace that Theodore Griggs obeyed, 
but at last the task was done, and Felix lay on a small 
cot. 

“ Remus will know what to do for him,” said Mr. 
Fairleigh. “ Come, let us go down.” But before fol- 
lowing Griggs, he paused to say to the old servant : 
“ Remember, have no light in the room, and when you 
bring him back to consciousness, remember he is not 
to see you.” 

A moment later he faced Griggs in the room below. 

“ Well, what does this action mean ? What are you 
going to do with him ?” asked Griggs, sharply. I 
won't have anything crooked in this game, you under- 
stand ! You hired me as a watcher, but once let there 
be any tricky work and I wash my hands of the whole 
concern.” 

Mr. Fairleigh sat down, and Griggs could see the 
trembling of his body under the close brown cloak. 

“ Good heavens, man, you madden me by your sus- 
picions ! You ask my meaning. It is this : Felix 
Love, you tell me, is to marry Bebe Raritan, the sister 
of the man who ruined, perhaps killed, his father. He 
dare not ! I want him here for the present. In a little 
while he will be free to go. At that time he will realize 
what a gulf lies between this girl and him. He will 
know that heaven and earth might better meet than 
that he should make her his wife.” 

“What are you going to do?” asked Griggs, curi- 
ously. 

“ At present, nothing. Now you had better return 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


163 


and see if they are still waiting dinner for him. Come 
here to-morrow.” 

“ All right. I 'm in your employ, Fairleigh, and you 
pay like a prince ; but no foul play ! That ’s all I insist 
on — no foul play !” 

He retreated, and Mr. Fairleigh stood alone facing 
the closed door. 

** He does not know for what I am waiting, and it is 
coming soon — soon. He does not dream that while I 
have paid him to watch Sidney Raritan, I have had 
another watching Clyde Hastings. Ah, the moment 
for which I have longed and prayed will soon be here ! 
I have tasted the brackish waters of death — and lived. 
The cup is near Sidney Raritan’s lips now. Patience — 
a little longer.” 




CHAPTER XXII. 

THE PEACE BEFORE THE STORM. 

No night in Bebe’s life had ever dragged like this 
one, on which she had waited for her lover’s coming, 
and waited in vain. 

“ I don’t understand it,” she had said and thought a 
hundred times. “ If he had not sent an answer back 
by Ruggles I would not think it so strange. Something 
must have happened — something very unlooked-for 
and very important.” 

The pretty face was clouded, and her heart very 
heavy. Vida and Sidney treated the matter lightly. 
He had been called out of town, perhaps — some busi- 
ness had prevented — it would be explained in the 
morning. 

But dinner was a doleful meal. There was a re- 
straint between the husband and wife, which, though 
scarcely visible, could be felt. Despite Vida’s sudden, 
remorseful love and the burning desire to give Sid- 
ney all the old love and faith, ‘‘ the little rift within 
the lute ” had left some faint, false notes in the music. 

The night passed almost silently. . Sidney had many 
letters to write, preparatory to his departure abroad ; 
Bebe felt some ease for the disappointment in her 
heart by playing a succession of minor chords from the 
soul of the grand piano ; and Vida, in her trailing 
black gown, sat before the wood-fire, her eyes impen- 
etrable, her hands locked in her lap. 

^• 64 ] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


165 


It was a night she was to remember when this scene 
would be of the past, and peace a stranger to her heart. 
Plaintive and sweet came the blended harmonies from 
the shadowy corner. The wind sighing outside made 
the warmth and quiet more cozy and delightful, and 
Vida tried to quiet the doubts still lurking in her 
heart — tried to accept all that she could not explain 
and believe in Sidney as sincerely as she loved him. 

Suddenly the music ceased, and Bebe crossed the 
line of firelight and sank on her knees beside Vida’s 
chair. 

“ Hasn’t the wind an eerie sound to-night ?” she 
questioned, giving, a chilly shrug of her plump 
shoulders. “It almost seems as if some one were 
knocking at the window. I remember a story one of 
the English teachers used to tell us at school, that the 
wind held the voices of the disembodied spirits return- 
ing to the scenes where they spent their lives ; a soft, 
plaintive wind that only sighs and sighs comes from a 
soul that left earth peacefully, but these wild, un- 
canny shriekings which one hears, sometimes, are the 
voices of people who died violently. Listen — the wind 
is rising — there is going to be a storm. Oh, I feel so 
cold, so unhappy !” 

“You are a bit fanciful, Bebe!” and Vida’s hand strayed 
tenderly over the bowed head. “ In the morning, in 
the sunlight, these fancies will all leave yon.” 

Bebe raised her head and her blue eyes were a little 
misty and defiant. 

“ Why do you and Sidney rush off to Europe in this 
mad style ? I call it a beastly shame,” she said, in one 
of her wild bursts. 

“ Well, you can come with us if you like. I rather 
fancied, however, that you would prefer to remain in 
Amerig^v long as a cgrtain young man lia<^ his homg 


166 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


in Uncle Sam’s dominions. Just as you like, dear. If 
you would rather come with us than stay with your 
aunt in Washington, Sidney would be delighted.” 

“ No, I think hot,” and a conscious blush overspread 
Bebe’s lovely face. “ But I don’t see why you two 
want to do that either. I thought that in another fort- 
night we ’d be back in town, in time for the Horse 
Show, and from then until the end of the season I ’d 
have the sort of good time every debiitayite expects. 
Now, without a moment’s warning, comes this Euro- 
pean rush. Why ? Why ?” 

It would be impossible for Vida to admit that she 
was unable to explain Sidney’s impulse, and, in a lazy 
tone she answered : 

“ You see, Sidney and I have often talked of 
going abroad. It happens that just now Wall Street 
and everything else is in a favorable condition for the 
flight, sa Sidney, like so many rich men, follows an 
impulse to get rid of the season’s conventional obliga- 
tions, and travel. Being able to fling off responsi- 
bilities is one of the luxuries of life. That ’s all there 
is to it.” 

“ Well, I don’t like it. You sail Thursday. But 
you ’re going to Mrs. Frankland’s ball to-morrow 
night ?” she added, with feverish anxiety. You ’ll 
never miss that. A Russian prince will be there, and 
an English duke and a Turkish ambassador — ” 

“ To say nothing of Mr. Felix Love,” added Vida, 
laughing lightly and pinching the girl’s pink cheek. 
“ Yes, we’ll go. The vessel doesn’t sail the next day 
until tour o’clock in the afternoon, and we ’ll have 
plenty of time to rest before going. What will you 
wear ?” 

Why, my new white, with the daisy trimming, of 

gourde !” gried Bebe, almost indignantly. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


1G7 


“Pardon me, Miss Raritan. To think I should have 
forgotten the new white with the daisy trimming !" 

“ And what will you wear ? Oh, Vida, your scarlet 
gown — the new velvet ! You look simply heavenly in 
that !” 

“ Scarlet, my dear ? It 's a sort of orange-red, and 
tremendously low at the shoulders. I was going to 
have it altered.” 

“ I wouldn’t have you take it up an inch — you 
have such divine shoulders — and in that gown they 
look simply brilliant. Then if I were you I wouldn’t 
wear a single gem with it except your big diamond 
star in the front of your hair. In that rig, if you don’t 
bring down the prince, the duke, the Turk and every 
one — ” 

“ Except Mr. Felix Love, of course. Go on.” 

“ I ’ll be very much surprised.” 

An hour later Applethorpe was wrapped in slumber, 
but the wee sma’ hours of the night had passed before 
the light was extinguished in the lower window of the 
house by the river. 

Bebe was the first one down to breakfast the next 
morning, and fairly pounced on the mail that lay be- 
side her plate. The letters slipped through her fingers 
while an expression of pain and pride succeeded the 
blank amazement which had overspread her face. 
There were notes from her school-friends, one from 
her riding-master, but the masculine writing she had 
expected to see was not there ; no letter of explanation 
came from Felix Love. 

“ I don’t undersfand it ! I don’t understand it at 
all !” were the words that rang in Bebe’s brain, while a 
burning sob rose in her throat. “ Why didn’t he come ? 
That was strange enough. But why hasnt’he written ? 
Perhaps he expects to ride up during the morning.” 


168 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


But despite this last hopeful assurance, a very irri- 
tating pain held Bebe’s heart as if in a grasp of steel, 
while she sat in the sunny breakfast-room, pretending 
to taste the food which had been placed before her. 

Vida, noticing her pale cheeks, refrained from ques- 
tioning her, surmising something was wrong, but Sid- 
ney, not having a woman's tact, asked abruptly : 

“ Well, what was the matter with Felix last night, if 
I may ask, missy ?” 

“ I — don’t know,” came the listless reply. 

“Why, hasn’t he sent an excuse this morning?’ 

“ No — I thought he would. He hasn’t.” 

“ He ’ll be up before the morning has passed,” said 
Vida, camly, giving Bebe a smile. “ It will be such a 
pretty denouement to see him come clattering up unex- 
pectedly to make his explanation.” 

But the morning came and went — so did the after- 
noon, and dinner had arrived, and still no word had 
come from Felix. 

Wonder had given place to anger in Bebe’s mind, and 
Vida felt resentful at this treatment of her little sister. 

But Sidney, pacing the balcony in the young, bluster- 
ing night, smoking an after-dinner cigar, smiled scorn- 
fully, as he wondered if Felix’s absence could not be 
explained by his having repented of his recent apology 
and harboring a renewal of his former suspicions of 
himself. 

“ He ’ll be at the ball to-night, and then we ’ll see,” 
was the thought in the minds of all. 

At ten o’clock the lights in the great, square hall 
shed their luster upon a lovely sight. Bebe’s fresh, 
flower-like beauty was intensified by the mist-like 
draperies that floated hazily around her with every 
light step : the daisies starring the gauze, the pearl 
daisies clasping the full sleeves, and the great bouquet 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


169 


of the same flowers mixed with valley lilies and fuzzy, 
wild grasses gave her the look of a wood nymph. 

There was something terrible in Vida’s beauty as 
she swept the length of the hall in the orange-red vel- 
vet which an empress could not have worn with half 
her grace. .Contrasting with the glowing color, her arms 
and shoulders were dazzling, and the star blazing in her 
golden hair had rivals in the light of her dark, starry eyes. 

“ Oh, Vida, I cannot take my eyes from you !” mur- 
mured Beb4, as she gazed at her rapturously. “ It is 
not fair that you should have so much beauty.” 

“ Foolish child, such a complaint does not flatter me. 
Haven’t you gazed in your mirror ?” asked Vida, still 
feeling the delight which the consciousness of loveli- 
ness alone can give. 

“ Don’t come within twenty yards of me,” cried 
Bebe, just as Sidney entered. “That suberb gown 
dwarfs me horribly, Mr. Raritan,” the girl continued, 
dropping a courtsey ; “ your wife does you honor. 
Did you ever see her look so lovely ?” 

For a moment Sidney stood surveying Vida critically. 

“Well ?” she asked, tapping her foot impatiently. 

“ I was thinking that only a bit of ermine was needed 
to make you an ideal queen of the magnificent past — 
one of those having a court jester and a troubadour, 
who would pause between two bites of a strawberry to 
order a rival’s head struck of.” 

“ A two-edged compliment, upon my word — compar- 
ing me to a barbarous queen with a penchant for dis- 
connected heads !” 

Bebd had run out to get her cloak, and Vida let her 
arm close around Sidney’s. A thrill of deep happiness 
went through him — something sweeter and truer than 
he had felt in a long time. He bent his head and kissed 
the proffered lips. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

MRS. FRANKLAND’s BALL. 

Mrs. Franklaiid’s ball, besides being the first of the 
season given in town, was destined to be remembered 
as the most brilliant. No succeeding ball approached 
it. There was a reason for this. Mrs. Frankland was 
comparatively new in New York — she had nothing but 
her plurality of millions to recommend her, and her 
footing in the golden house of society was not as as- 
sured as her ambition demanded it should be. She 
was past the threshold, but she wanted the sweep of 
the place and the privilege to enter, at last, the inner 
sanctorum presided over by the powerful and the fa- 
vored few. 

For this reason Mrs. Frankland had returned after a 
year’s absence abroad, a prince and a duke in her wake 
who did her the honor of permitting themselves to be 
lionized. A fortune was spent on fiowers ; her house, 
like an English castle on a city street, outrivaled all 
others ; she had arranged that, between the dances, a 
musicale should be held in the smaller, white ball- 
room, and that none but singers of first repute, 
whose golden notes demanded golden showers of 
money, should delight the guests she was privileged to 
honor. ~ 

[170] \ 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


m 


No wonder such a scene of wealth and beauty al- 
most took the breath out of Bebe’s little body. She 
had dreamed of fairyland, she had a vague idea of 
ParadivSe, but the mansion she entered that night sur- 
passed them all. Lights of various hues, like great 
tropical flowers aflame, sent shivering lances of glory 
on a scene made up of dazzling trifles. The flowers, 
the bare shoulders of women, the sheen of satins, the 
halls and rooms rich in antique furnishings, which lent 
a somber, oriental aspect to the place ; the magical, 
never-ceasing strains of music, sometimes not louder 
than a sigh ; the far-off, velvety notes from the throat 
of a famous singer, coming like an angel’s message 
over the heads of the throng — oh, it was beautiful, 
ecstatic 

But one thing marred the pleasure of the never-to- 
be-forgotten night — Felix was not there. Though she 
danced continually, had her share of admiration and 
coquetted in a reckless fashion, there was a feeling of 
awe at Bebe’s heart, a certainty that something mys- 
terious and far out in the dark was keeping Felix from 
her side. She thought of the barrier he had once told 
her must separate them. Did that loom again be- 
tween their lives ? What if he had found those 
suspicions true ! What if something reflecting on her 
brother did, indeed, keep them irrevocably apart ? 

Still she danced and flirted, no hint of her heart’s 
pain showing in her laughing blue eyes. The excite- 
ment was like a tonic — she would take it and drink it 
drop by drop. Ah, there was time enough by and by, 
when the glitter and the music belonged to the past- 
time enough then to weep and wonder ! So the little 
feet tripped lightly, and the pretty lips smiled. 

But Bebe’s successes were small and unimportant 
beside Vida’s complete triumph. She was the beauty 


in 


THE HOUSE BV THE RIVER. 


/>ar excellence^ and homage was poured at her feet. 
Russian prince and English duke and Turkish diplomat 
vied with one another in paying tribute to her. Be- 
tween the dances she was surrounded by admirers, old 
and young. The excitement and glamour of it all lent 
a life to her face that made it more radiant than was 
usual ; her laughter was soft, spontaneous, happy. It 
was a night of victory, and amid its pleasure the small 
discords of her life were forgotten. 

Sidney, of course, devoted himself to other women, 
but he was proud of his wife, proud of her success, 
and from afar he watched her beauty shining like a 
star. 

“What have I done to deserve such a peerless being 
as the sharer of my life ?” he thought. “ She loves me. 
That is the simple explanation of the whole mystery,” 
and his heart grew warm and joyous. “ No wonder 
Clyde Hastings envies me so bitterly. He has spent his 
manhood in loving her without avail. Yes, without 
avail !” he repeated in his heart. “ He is not here to- 
night, yet she does not miss him, and to-morrow she is 
going willingly with me to other countries, where he 
will not follow, and where we two, she and I, will be 
more dependent on each other for happiness than we 
are now.” 

If the memory of Vida’s miniature in Clyde Has- 
tings’s possession rose to trouble and thwart him a 
little, he put the doubt from him with indifference. 

“ He must have stolen the photograph. He is quite 
equal to doing such a thing. The miniature was 
copied from that, and I don’t believe Vida knew any- 
thing about his having either,” he said. 

To-morrow ! To-morrow ! The thought was full of 
contentment for him. Mixed with the strains of waltz 
music he seemed in fancy to hear the throb of the 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


173 


great ship that would bear him and Vida far away for 
a respite from all dissensions, to new scenes, to happi- 
ness. 

It was almost one o’clock. Vida had just come from 
the dressing-room, where she had gone for a moment’s 
rest, and was standing in the shade of a rich tapestry 
curtain that divided the picture gallery from the ball- 
room. Her partner for the cotillion just forming would 
claim her in a moment, and she snatched a quiet 
moment to look down on the brilliant scene of which 
she had been such a conspicuous figure. 

Near a great bank of palms she saw Bebe deep in a 
flirtation with a young naval officer. Sidney was not 
in the ball-room, and as at that moment she heard the 
notes of the pritna donna's voice in one of the airs from 
“ Rigoletto,” she thought he was probably there. 

“ Poor little Bebe ! For all her smiles, her heart is 
sore to-night, I ’ll warrant. That provoking Felix ! I 
wonder where he is ? His continued absence and si- 
lence are more than strange. Something must have 
happened. He would never have been guilty of this 
rudeness. We must find out to-morrow, if possible, for 
Bebe’s sake.” 

“ I beg pardon. You are Mrs. Raritan ?” 

Vida turned and saw a trim waiting-maid at her side, 
holding out a letter. 

“ A servant just brought this, if you please. He 
wished it delivered to you without delay.” 

Vida took it and retreated to the dressing-room. 
Her heart had commenced to throb painfully. A feel- 
ing of nervous excitement chilled her. vShe had rec- 
ognized the writing as Clyde Hastings’s. 

It contained these words : 

Have you none of the curiosity of your sex? Do you not 
wonder why your husband has so summarily put an end to our 


174 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


friendship — why he is spiriting you off to Europe to-morrow? 
There is an explanation, and one of most vital importance to 
you. What if I tell you that the whole mysterious course of ac- 
tion comes from my refusal to give up a certain package of letters 
to him? What if I tell you that these letters prove he was 
already married when you became his wife? What if that first Mrs. 
Raritan is still alive — the Aloha of whom you spoke to me not 
long ago ? More than this, he is a murderer. I know it. He 
knows this, and hence his hatred of me. Yes, Mrs. Raritan, I 
can prove all this by giving the letters into your possession. You 
can come and see them, if you trust my sincerity and friendship. 
My rooms are but a stone’s throw from where you are, as you 
know. If you do not care to heed this warning or decide to 
ignore it, you can, of course, remain the willing dupe of a man 
not worthy your love or my respect. This is the true explan- 
ation of his hatred of me. The explanation of my concern for 
your future you know lies in the fact that your happiness must 
always be dearer to me than my own. It rests with yourself to 
save yourself. The letters are here. To-morrow will be too late.” 

Had the letter urged her passionately or insistently 
to seek the proof spoken of, it is likely Vida would 
have been skeptical, even though troubled. But the 
deliberate tone, the cold setting forth of facts, leaving 
it to herself to decide, influenced her, as Clyde Hastings 
knew it would do. 

“ You are the one whose future is at stake, you are 
the one to resent this wrong ; the crime is against you, 
not me," the letter seemed to say. “ You will solve 
the truth of what I say, if you are wise. If not, go your 
way." 

She stood as if stricken of all life, the letter crushed 
in her hands. Every trifle needing explanation re- 
turned now with threefold emphasis, and she felt a 
wild anguish, a resentful jealousy rise like a wave in 
her soul. 

How peacefully she had accepted her husband’s de- 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


175 


cision that Clyde Hastings should be stricken from her 
list of friends — how amiably she had promised to go on 
this blind journey with him on the morrow! And now — 
and now — it lay in this man’s power to show her she 
had been cheated. 

Had her judgment, her senses been sleeping ? Why 
had she not questioned ? Why had she rot insisted on 
an explanation of these strange happenings, strange 
commands ? 

She loved Sidney — yes, she loved him with every 
side of her nature — but if this thing were true — if 
he had wronged her in this brutal way, she must 
know it — and accept the dishonor, the misery of it 
all. 

For a moment she stood hesitating. The thought of 
the journey on the following day rose before her. She 
must act, and quickly ; those letters must be in her pos- 
session before the night ended. 

It was impossible to leave the place unseen, but she 
was reckless of small consequences now. Her maid 
helped her on with her fur cloak, wondering the while 
at her pale face. 

“ You need not come, Marie. I — I — will be only a 
few moments. If Mr. Raritan asks for me, say you do 
not know where I have gone, but that if he waits for 
me here, I will return before the ball has ended. Now 
let me slip out this way. That will do. Say nothing 
unless Mr. Raritan misses me — you understand ?” 

The hall was almost deserted as she ran down. The 
crowds were now divided between the cotillion, the 
music-room and the supper-rooms. In a few moments 
she had swept past the butler into the cold, quiet street. 
A line of carriages extended along the curb, most of 
the drivers sitting on their boxes with locked arms and 
heads bowed sleepily. She was just wondering how to 


176 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


get a carriage to take her on her errand, when a. foot- 
man stepped lip and addressed her : 

“ I am Mr. Hastings’s man. I brought the letter — 
and if you are — ” 

“Yes, yes!” she interrupted hastily. “Drive me 
away at once !” 

He sprang lightly to the seat, and, in a moment, she 
was whirled up the avenue to the apartment house 
whose telescopic height shown darkly against the cold, 
violet sky. 

In the gloom of the brougham Vida bowed her white 
face on her hands. 

“ Perhaps I am mad to come — but the old devil of 
distrust is aroused. Oh, it is all true — he would not 
dare otherwise — no — no, it is all true ; I know it. Oh, 
Sidney — Sidney !” 

A sob of anguish broke from her lips. She looked 
like a ghost of the beautiful woman who had so re- 
cently moved among the admiring crowd. The letter 
she had received was buried in her bosom and its sharp 
edges brushed her flesh like a lancet’s edge. 

The carriage brushed the curb harshly, and came to 
a halt at Clyde Hastings’s door. 



) 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

FACE TO FACE. 

A moment later, Vida stood tapping at the door of 
the apartment where the name “ Hastings” appeared 
on a small, oblong brass plate. She knew this was one 
of the most vital moments of her life. Her heart was 
leaping like a mad thing, a dull, sickly pain surging 
through her, and every fiber quivering with excite- 
ment, dread, anguish. 

At last the door was opened, and she swept hurriedly 
past the servant into the dainty, little drawing-room, 
where at a small table on which a shaded lamp stood, 
Clyde Hastings sat reading. 

He rose as if startled, when his eyes fell on Vida. 

“ You did come !” he said, in a low, impressive tone. 
“ You did come !” 

There was something queenly, something challeng- 
ing in Vida’s attitude as she stood before him, her 
head lifted, her lovely face so pitifully pale, the rich 
cloak falling from her bare shoulders, yet held par- 
tially in place by the firm grasp of her hand. 

Yes,” she said, in a breathless whisper, “ I had to 
come. The letters — where are they ? Give them to 
me ! I have only a moment ! I want to see those 
letters !” 

You will sit down firs^ ” and Clyde drew an arm- 
chair nearer to the fire, 


[' 77 ] 


178 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“This is not the moment for idle ceremony. The 
letters ! The letters !” and her dark eyes glowed 
somberly like brilliants. 

“You are impatient. No wonder and he took his 
position on the hearth, while he faced her, a look in 
his eyes such as a master wears when endeavoring by 
sheer force of will to quell a passionate, dumb brute. 
“ But you must hear me first. I have a few words to 
say,” 

A low sob, half anger, half pain, broke from Vida’s 
lips, and she leaned against the high back of a chair to 
keep from sinking in her weakness. 

“Oh, how can you torture me so? Don’t you see 
how I am suffering ? Don’t you know what this means 
to me ? I have imperiled my name to come here to 
see the awful proof you say you have ! Give the letters 
to me, or let me see the words with my own eyes, and 
let me go. I ask no more ! If you are doing me a 
service in this — if you are my friend — though bitter 
woe comes as my portion, I will thank you by and by, 
but not now. I only want to get the letters — and go.” 

She held out her trembling hands in a gesture of 
command and appeal, but the man before her stood 
unmoved as a sphinx. 

“ Will you listen to me ? There is one question you 
must answer — ” 

“ Oh, there are conditions now ! You made none in 
your letter, Mr. Hastings. I was mad to come — mad 
to suppose you would keep your word. The informa- 
tion you possess is not worth the price you seem to in- 
sist on, since the delay here means ruin to me.” 

She swept toward the door, paused in pitiful hesita- 
tion, and covered her ghastly face with her hands. 
What was she going to do ? If she left the place now 
without any definite knowledge of her husband’s un- 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


179 


worthiness, and yet with all her nature roused to a 
frenzy of jealous suspicion, her pride quivering — 
what attitude could she take to Sidney on the mor- 
row when he expected her to leave America with him ? 

“ Yes, you had better come back," said Clyde, still 
at the fire^ and his soothing tone made the quick blood 
leap to her cheek. “ Don’t act like a schoolgirl. Be a 
woman, and look the circumstances of your life in the 
face." 

“ Speak — and in pity’s name hurry !’’ she moaned, 
sinking into a chair just beyond the line of light. 

What have you to say to me ?’’ 

“That ’s better.’’ He looked at the clock — she had 
been absent from the ball-room half an hour. Every 
moment counted to his advantage. 

He moved, in a slow, leisurely way that maddened 
Vida, to a secretary in a corner near which she sat. 
She heard the key turn in the lock ; she saw him bend 
forward eagerly, and thrust his hand into a narrow 
compartment. A low sound of surprise broke from 
him. He stood for a moment as if amazed, then 
commenced hastily tossing over the contents of the 
desk. 

Like one enthralled, she sat watching his face — the 
knit brows, the flashing eyes, the compressed lips, the 
passionate gestures of the hands as papers were tosssd 
about. 

At length, with a groan, he staggered back and 
placed his hand to his brow. She stood up, and, like 
one fascinated by something she dreaded, gazed at him 
spellbound. 

“ Something has happened !’’ came from her white 
lips. “ What is it ? Speak ! Speak !’’ 

“ The letters !’’ he groaned. “ The letters — are gone ! 
He — stole them !" 


180 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Who ? What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that when Sidney Raritan was here the day 
before yesterday — when I waved those letters in his 
face and refused all the splendid offers he made to 
purchase them — he saw where I placed them: He stole 
them ! He has them now I” 

Vida remembered Sidney’s early return on the day 
mentioned, his distant look, his chilling reference to 
Clyde Hastings, his announcement of their hurried 
voyage. These events gave the coloring of truth to 
the words that now rang in her ears. Added to these, 
Clyde Hastings seemed beside himself with rage. 

“ Well, he has tricked me finely,” he muttered, as 
he stood with clenched hands and frowning brow. 
“ He has won — so far.” 

Vida was gazing at him in fascinated horror. His 
expression, his w'ords, meant that her visit had been in 
vain — that she had dared all for nothing. A feeling of 
despair coursed through her, and all, for a second, grew 
black before her eyes. 

“ What shall I do ? What is there to be done ?” her 
lips murmured, almost mechanically. 

“ I ’ll tell you what to do,” said Clyde, his voice now 
like ice, and calm in a maddening way. “ Go back to 
your husband. Take him on trust. Fall in with his 
plans when he wishes to spirit you away to a safe, 
foreign place. Forget what I have said. Bury your 
doubts ; crush your fears. I cannot prove Sidney Rari- 
tan the villain I know him to be. The letters which 
branded him he has stolen, and I am unarmed. Go back 
to him, and quickly — go !” 

He moved toward the door and flung it wide open. 
Vida rose, tremblingly, her stunned gaze still fixed 
upon his pale, quiet face. 

Yes, he was right, and he was just. There was 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


181 


nothing- to be done. She might as -well go back and 
fight the fight out as best she could. She might accuse 
without proof, and what good would it do ? She might 
pray to be told the truth, but since Sidney’s love had 
made him commit this sin to gain her, how could she 
hope for the truth and confidence now ? 

There was such a bitter ache in her throat ! There 
was such a blinding pain in her heart ! 

Her beauty, the splendor of her gown and jewels, 
made her heartsickness and desperation but the more 
apparent. Nothing seemed real to her as she rose, 
with a shadowy intention of obeying Clyde Hastings’s 
command. The world seemed to have sunk in a sea of 
shadows, and her desire to live had gone with it. 

For a second she paused in her passage to the door, 
and her eyes met Clyde’s in a long, steady, deep gaze. 
He shrank at the look ; every pulse throbbed madly. 
A fierce desire to take her in his arms and comfort 
her swept through him, but he conquered the feeling ; 
he had a part to play, and he would play it well, at 
whatever cost in the present moment to himself. 

“ Clyde Hastings — Clyde Hastings,” came slowly, 
weakly from Vida’s lips, her deep, dark eyes still upon 
his face, as if she would pierce to and read his very 
heart, “ to-night you have told me a thing which must 
forever alter my life, if it is true. I had rather be 
dead than believe it. You can gain nothing by lying 
to me. You can break my heart by the truth. Yet I 
would hear all if it is true.” 

Her lips trembled, a wave of anguish convulsed her 
beautiful face, and there was something childish, wist- 
ful in the glance she bent upon him. 

‘‘Answer me,” she murmured, “just as if you were 
dying and soon must meet God. The horror I have 
listened to to-night is true ?” 


182 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Every syllable. I am sorry to pain you, but you 
should never have married Raritan had he not man- 
aged that with secrecy, through fear. I could have 
saved you from all pain then. Now I can only save 
you from living a lie any longer. A woman lives who 
is his rightful wife — and he is a murderer.” 

“ A murderer !” came in a gasp from Vida’s drawn 
lips. “ And you knew of this — before ?” 

“ My dear Mrs. Raritan — ” Clyde commenced, and 
then paused abruptly. “No, I will call you that no 
longer. Vida — Vida, you have no right to that other 
name — you are now and always have been Vida to 
me.” He half shut the door, and in a tender, respect- 
ful way, which must have soothed any woman in 
Vida’s position, he took her hand and said ; “ God 
knows what it has cost me to do this — to tell you all — 
to tear down the fabric of your dream. But — better 
you should know it now, even at this late day, than 
hear it first as a shock when Sidney Raritan is called 
to the stand for the murder of — Allan Love.” 

He saw a look of shuddering comprehension 
leap into her eyes, and her fingers clutched his as if 
for help. 

“ Allan Love !” she echoed. 

“ Yes, the father of Felix Love was Sidney Raritan’s 
closest friend, then bitterest enemy. They both loved 
the same woman — Aloha Brysdale. Allan Love dis- 
appeared. No one could openly accuse Raritan of 
murdering him, but every one, including Felix, sus- 
pected him. I learn now that the body has been found, 
and with it proof that Raritan murdered him. Now 
do you understand his attitude to Felix Love, and the 
mystery connected with it ? Now do you understand 
why he married secretly ? Now do you recognize the 
significance of the letters from Aloha in England ? I 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


183 


discovered but yesterday that she is a hopeless invalid 
dying-, and has spent ths past year in a sanitarium on 
the English coast. She has prayed to him to come to 
her for a last good-by. His conscience would not per- 
mit him to refuse that request. He intended leaving 
America for two reasons — to see her, and because he 
fears that the net is tightening around him here. He 
would not leave you behind, because he feared that I 
might enlighten you. Now is it clear ? You have been, 
tricked by a master of deceit ; you have given the pure, 
sweet love of your woman’s heart to one not worthy to 
touch the hem of your skirt. My poor Vida, God help 
you !” 

She swayed backward, and against the crimson 
Turkish stuff on the chair ; her face was drained of 
the hue of life ; her lashes closed ; a moan of mortal 
pain came from her lips. Life seemed ended. ' 

“ Vida ! Vida ! for heaven’s sake ! Speak to me ! 
Look up ; remember where you are. Remember )^ou 
must go.” And Clyde, leaning over her tenderly, 
placed his hands upon her shoulders. 

He had heard the grating of the elevator door and a 
hurried footstep. He was not surprised when the 
door was pushed open and Sidney Raritan stood on the 
threshold. 




CHAPTER XXV. 

AN UNEXPECTED CLIMAX. 

In a life there are many moments fraught with deep 
meaning, with keen pain or joy, but there is often one 
which, on looking back, seems to hold within its own 
small compass the crowded agony or bliss of years. 

Such a moment came to Sidney Raritan as he paused 
just within the door and looked, not at Clyde Hastings, 
but straight into Vida’s dark eyes. 

Everything in his life had slipped away from him — 
the scene of gayety from which he had come, the jour- 
ney he had anticipated on the morrow. Everything 
was vague but this one awful, appalling fact — his wife 
had covered his name with dishonoi. Surely the bit- 
terness of death was small and bearable beside the 
anguish crucifying him as he faced the wreck of his 
faith. 

Vida started up, a wildness seizing her, a storm of 
tears sweeping away the deathly calm which had held 
her in thrall. 

“ Don’t — don’t look at me that way !” she cried. 
“How dare you? Oh, how dare you? What is this 
night? Is it a horrid dream ? Oh, will I awake and 
find that nothing is as it seems ? What shall I do ? 
Sidney ! Sidney !” 
fi 84 ] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


185 


She broke down, flung- out her arms and buried her 
face on them. She was praying to die, because life 
could never again be as it was. She did not in the ex- 
citement of the moment clearly realize how her pres- 
ence in Clyde Hastings’s chambers might be misunder- 
stood. When she looked again at Sidney, she fairly 
quivered under the burning contempt in his eyes. 

What did it mean ? There was no guilt in his face — 
nothing that could be construed into fear. Somehow 
the accusing hand seemed to have been turned and was 
pointing at her — at her ! 

As she arose and held out her hands, Clyde Hastings, 
who was smarting more under Sidney’s studied uncon- 
sciousness of him than if he had scourged him with 
words that cut like knives, drew back a little, prepared 
to watch the scene on the outcome of which his success 
or failure with Vida must depend. 

“ Sidney, I came here to-night — ” she began. But her 
husband stopped her. 

“ Not one word ! Not one word !” he said, and his 
voice was like the strokes of steel upon steel. “ Noth- 
ing you might say could make you spotless again with 
me ! Don’t enter into a discussion of what feelings 
prompted you to put yourself in the power of this man 
who has so long pursued you. Words are useless be- 
tween us. I have done with you forever !” 

“ What do you mean ? You think — you think — Oh, 
how can you look at me, accuse me, knowing what you 
have done — knowing what your life has been ?” she 
cried, flinging her cloak quite from her and standing 
straight and stately before him, her face worn from 
feeling and pitifully pallid. 

She had seen many aspects of her husband's charac- 
ter, but never knew what grim determination could 
beat down every softer sentiment in vSidney’s soul. It 


186 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


was this dogged steadfastness to a purpose which had 
helped to make him a rich man, and the same feeling 
was strong in him now — to forget her sweetness and 
the deep love he bore her, to forget what his pain must 
be in the future when she was lost to him, and to con- 
sider only that by her own act she had reared a barrier 
between them that never could be crossed. 

“When I found you had gone to-night from Mrs. 
Frankland’s — gone hurriedly and mysteriously — I knew 
at once where you had gone," he said, leaning on the 
table and looking at her, his blue eyes as stern as a 
judge’s. “ My suspicions and fears of months made 
me leap to but one conclusion — and I was right. I 
have nothing to say to — your lover. Yes, you may 
wince at that ; it is an ugly word to hear from a hus- 
band’s lips, no matter how small an item he has be- 
come in your life. I have nothing to say to him. The 
other morning I settled my score with him. My rage 
is not against him — it is not he who has dealt me a 
blow which almost makes me wonder if there is any 
mercy in Heaven. It is you who have done this. I 
loved you — I believed in you. I find now you were 
not worth my devotion nor my faith.’’ 

“ No, no,’’ came in a strangled whisper from Vida’s 
lips, and she turned her head helplessly, looking from 
Clyde Hastings to her husband like one only half 
awake. “ Clyde Hastings told me of things in your past 
which he said he could prove — ’’ 

The look that answered her was like a blow. 

“ And you came to him, did you ? I knew he fancied 
he had much to tell you, and you trusted him, and 
came and listened and believed. Very well. And not 
so long ago, not even one year ago, you swore you 
would trust me no matter what happened. Oh, you have 
kept your word, have you n.ot — you — you, my wife ?’’ 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


187 


Vida hurried to Clyde Hastings’s side and desper- 
ately seized him by the arm. 

“ Tell him !” she cried. “ Tell him what you have 
told me !” 

“ I won’t hear him,” came as a command from Sid- 
ney’s lips. “ I know his lies of old. I refuse to listen 
to them. I won’t be judged by you on his accusations 
and in his presence. What he says is nothing to me. 
It seems to have a wonderful importance in your eyes. 
Stay — and enjoy it.” 

“ Sidney !” 

The cry went to his heart, but he steeled himself, 
yes, even when she flung herself before him and bathed 
his hands with her burning tears, he crushed back the 
pity that tried to gain supremacy. Mixed with these 
feelings was a mad disappointment, a sense of failure, 
a sense of being humiliated before his enemy which 
•almost made him hate her. 

“ Sidney, I will believe you. Say that the story he 
has told me about this woman — Aloha — is not true — 
say she is not, has never been your wife — say that you 
have not been guilty of murder. Oh, my darling, one 
word — one word — and I will believe you. See, Sidney, 
I kneel to )mu — I do love you — ” 

“ Pah ! I don’t want your love — now. I swore to 
you once that my life was untouched by dishonor, and 
you believed it, or you said you did. Yet — you have 
come to this. You have stolen to this man’s rooms — 
you knew he loved you, and, for aught I know, you may 
have encouraged him from the beginning. You chose 
to listen to him rather than have faith in me. I say I 
have done with you. Our paths lie wide apart from 
this night. What if disgrace comes now ? As well now 
as later.” 

Th^r^ w^s a look of torriblo despair on his face, a 


1S8 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


light not tinlike insanity in his eyes, as he tore his 
hands from Vida’s feverish clasp and opened the door. 
She gained her feet, and was blindly reaching for her 
cloak to follow him, when she saw that Sidney’s prog- 
ress was stayed by the entrance of two men. 

“ Mr. Raritan, I believe ?” 

“Yes. What do you want with me ?’’ 

Oh, the light deep down in Clyde Hastings’s eyes as 
he stood perfectly quiet, scarcely seeming to breathe. 

“ We heard you had left Mrs. Frankland’s and come 
here.’’ 

“Well?’’ he asked, impatiently, thinking he was 
being delayed by some trifle. 

“ Mr. Raritan, you are my prisoner !’’ 

Sidney stood like a rock, but a pale, greenish pallor 
surged over his face ; he seemed incapable of move- 
ment. 

Vida listened, clasping the chair before her for sup- 
port, stupefaction, a black horror changing her face 
out of its natural loveliness. 

“Your prisoner?” echoed Sidney, when he could 
command his voice. “ You must be mad !” 

“ Sorry to say, sir, not at all. We are to bring you 
to Arizona. You are wanted for the murder of Allan 
Love. His body has been found, as well as proof 
against you. I advise you to say nothing, as it would 
be used against you in court. Kindly let me slip these 
bracelets on you, sir. The easiest way is the best.” 

There was a cry that rent even the hearts cf the 
hard men who listened — a cry of agony inarticulate, 
indescribable, and Vida fell, face downwards, at her 
husband’s feet, 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE JOURNEY HOME. 

A clock striking four were the sounds that broke on 
Vida’s ears when she regained her senses. They came 
to her as if from a far-away place. They were unreal, 
her surroundings were unreal, and she herself seemed 
to have merged her identity into another’s. 

For a moment everything was misty, and had it not 
been for those silvery strokes she would have fancied 
herself still dreaming. 

In a blind, groping way she lifted her head and 
looked around. What had happened ? This place was 
unfamiliar. How did she come there, or was she still 
the victim of some trick of her imagination ? She had 
dreamed that Sidney had looked at her with an awful 
sorrow in his eyes, a dash of blood upon his pallid 
brow, his hand raised, as if to ward off her approach, 
as if to feel her touch would be unbearable. 

She was still half-sitting on the couch, her dazed, 
blank eyes fastened on space, when the door was softly 
opened, and an old woman, a stranger, entered. Her 
coming completed the unreality of the position to Vida, 
for she had never seen her before. 

“ Ah, you are awake now !” said the old woman, in 
a soft, kind tone. “ You are feeling better ?” 

“ Who are you and where am I ?” asked Vida, eagerly, 
“ I — I — have forgotten — there is some memory,” — and 
shuddered from head to foot — “ but a vague one. 


190 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Tell me — tell me,” she moaned like a child, her great, 
dark eyes drawn with agony. 

“ Why, my dear child, you are in Mr. Hastings’s 
place. I am his housekeeper. Last night — ” 

But a smothered exclamation from Vida silenced 
her as she staggered to her feet. 

“ I remember ! I remember ! Heaven ! And you 
let me lie like a dead creature while he — Sidney — 
Get me my cloak ! Help me to leave here ! Oh, help 
me to leave here ! Help me ! Not too late yet to see 
him ! Oh, to see him !” 

She moved about feverishly. She implored mutely. She 
was filled with the desire to annihilate distance, time, and 
reach Sidney’s side, to cling to him, to soothe him, to pro- 
test that no matter what he had done, no matter what 
happened, she still loved him and would to the end. 
Yet a weakness, a soul sickness, an uncertainty of 
movement and intention, rendered her helpless as a 
child, and at length she sank down moaning, seeing 
only the picture of Sidney’s departure with the detec- 
tives, his manacled hands, his stricken face. 

“ Oh, my love ! my love ! my love !” she whispered, 
as if he were there and she was .speaking to him. 
“ And I, by my mad jealousy, my want of faith, made 
you doubt me — added, perhaps, the keenest pang in 
your sufferings !” 

The woman knelt beside her and chafed her hands, 
endeavoring to calm her ; but Vida thrust her back 
fiercely. 

“ I must leave here ! Give me my cloak ! Where is 
it ? Get me a cab ! I must go, I tell you !” 

“ Had you not better wait with me until morning > 
It would be impossible for you to go home now — not 
yet dawn. Wait until the light comes, and I will go 
with you, poor child.” 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


191 


“The light? Will the light ever come again? I 
must go, I tell you ! You don’t know — every moment 
is precious — every moment !” 

As she spoke in low, ringing tones, she pushed aside 
the portiere and found herself in a little library. Be- 
side the dying fire Clyde Hastings sat, his head sunk 
upon his breast. Her cloak was lying on a chair near 
him, and as she lifted it he looked up. 

“ Where are you going ?” 

“ Home. I suppose you can send some one for a cab,” 
and she commanded her voice to quietness. 

“ Ah, you are going home ? Not a pleasant journey, 
I should fancy. Do you quite realize what home is now, 
Vida ?” 

He stood up, his intense, searching eyes looking into 
hers. 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“Your husband — still call him so, if you like — your 
husband is not there. He is on his way in all probability 
to the West, to stand trial for his life on a charge of 
deliberate murder.” 

“ Yes, I know,” she said again, and clasping her hands 
she raised them to her brow. “ Spare me. I know, I 
know.” 

“ But perhaps you don’t believe this of him ? Per- 
haps you have determined to revive your stubborn 
woman’s faith and cling to him, and trust him in defi- 
ance of proof?” 

“ I have not thought of that. I only feel that noth- 
ing matters except to reach him and comfort him, be- 
cause I love him.” 

A sneer passed over Clyde’s face, the light of mock- 
ery glittered in his eyes. 

“ And / thought you a proud woman,” he said medi- 
tatively ; “ I thought you different from the mawkish 


192 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


type of woman who boasts of a constancy that in reality 
is another name for stupidity. You love Sidney Rari- 
tan still — a bigamist — a murderer — a swindler ! Yes, 
he is all of that ! These are hard names, but he de- 
serves them all. And you, a woman of heart, soul and 
brain, instead of crushing whatever sentiment still 
clings to you for him, instead of calling to your aid all 
the fierce pride of which you can be capable, you long 
only to comfort him — this man who had no scruple in 
deceiving you any more than in alluring an unsuspect- 
ing man to his death in some desolate canyon. This 
is the man you love ; this is the man you have called 
husband !” 

He came nearer to her, every word he uttered pierc- 
ing her heart. Vida stood motionless, her fixed eyes 
seeming to dwell on the picture he described. Sud- 
denly she raised her head, and a convulsion of sus- 
picion, almost of dislike, crossed her beautiful face. 

“ Why do yoit tell me this? You are glad it is in 
your power to blot Sidney’s name. This is your hour 
of triumph. A friend would pity me. You have no 
pity. I am going. Wrong or right, I am going to 
Sidney. Not your charges, not the charges of a hun- 
dred others will make me doubt him until I have seen 
his guilt proven myself,” she said, her face transfigured. 
“ Now, will you get me a cab ? I must go at once.” 
And she hurried to the door, her step and expression 
determined. 

“You shall go — Vida — when you have first heard 
me now Clyde’s tones were soft and half-regretful. 

He had learned from former experiences that the 
masterful attitude was never successful with Vida. He 
might play on her sympathies, and so touch her heart ; 
he could never subdue her spirit and conquer her 
otherwise. 


Tlifi HOUSE bV the river. 


193 


Listen to me,’' he said appealingly. In a few 
months Sidney, without a doubt, will de declared a 
felon. Set aside the fact that another woman lives 
who rightfully should bear his name before the world 
— ^leave that until, as you say, it is fully proved — the 
declaration of his guilt will make you a free woman. 
Vida,” and his tone grew more urgent, more passion- 
ate, ‘‘ you will need a friend then — you will be free. I 
love you, I have loved you for years. While I live I 
must love you, no matter what comes. You must ad- 
mit that, during the past months, I have controlled 
myself. Have I said one disloyal word, even though I 
knew the treasure of your love was given to a man 
utterly unworthy ? I gave no hint of my knowledge 
of Aloha’s relationship to him, because I saw you loved 
him, and to pain you would have been more bitter than 
paining myself. I could not. Not until I knew the 
secret could be kept secret no longer did I hint at his 
treachery to you. You have learned to like me a little. 
May I dare hope that when you are free you will re- 
member these words of mine which I speak now : I 
love you so that the thought of you is woven into every 
second of my life ! The dear reverence of you is my 
religion. In a year — in five — in twenty — should we 
both live, it will be the same. Remember this when 
you are free. Come !” 

The reality of his love was in his keen face as he 
lifted her cold hands and pressed a kiss of submissive 
reverence upon them. 

There were blinding tears in Vida’s eyes as she went 
down the stairs by his side. What if all he had said 
should be too true ? His words of love had touched 
her by their apparent simplicity and earnestness ; but 
the pain in her heart was for Sidney, all unworthy 
though he might be. Shadowy thoughts of dark. 


104 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


weary days of imprisonment for him, or the horror of 
a judicial death ! She alone, heart-stricken, hopeless ! 

Clyde Hastings’s love had followed her like a fatal- 
ity. Would she be driven some day to accept it as a 
shelter, when tired of warring against the world ? Oh, 
would she ? 

When they reached the street they found a misty 
dawn creeping ghostlike over the sleeping city, and 
at the door what seemed a phantom cab stood waiting. 

Clyde assisted her in, and held her hand in a close, 
earnest clasp. 

“ Perhaps I had better not go with you. You are not 
afraid ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no !” 

“ Then good-by. You will not fail to call upon me 
if at any time I can render you any service. I will be 
ready. My heart bleeds for you. It has been like 
death to cause you pain. God bless you ! Good-by !” 

“ Good-by !” came in a hopeless whisper from Vida’s 
lips. 

The driver touched his horses, and she was carried 
through the creeping, dreamlike mist on a journey that 
seemed a horrible dream. 

Alone in the awful gray light that chills even a 
happy soul, Vida gave vent to her despair. What 
havoc had been made in her life within a few hours ! 
Was an overthrow ever more complete ? That moment 
when she had stood beside the portiere looking down 
at the brilliant crowd in Mrs. Frankland’s hall and the 
maid approached her with a note — was it a hundred 
years ago, the memory of a past existence ? Ah, she 
had tasted of the waters of Marah since then ; tasted 
deeply, and the brackish flavor was in her very soul. 

Sidney false to her ? Sidney the husband of another 
woman ? Sidney a murderer under arrest ? Oh, it 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


195 


was too awful to be true. Too awful. But worst of 
all, he had gone to face this terrible charge believing 
her as guilty as Clyde Hastings had declared he was. 

“Not that, not that,” came from her drawn, pale 
lips. “ Let him be proven guilty of all — let the worst 
come — but he shall know that I, at least, was true, all 
undeserving though he may have been.” 

When, after a drive that seemed never-ending, the 
cab turned into the grounds around Applethorpe, she 
pressed her pale face to the glass and' peered out, 
hungry for a sight of Sidney, hoping he was there and 
that she could meet him, plead her cause, and assure 
him of her devotion in spite of all. 

A spectral sun was sending its lances through the 
fog, as she went up the steps to the house. 

The door stood open. She passed a frightened serv- 
ant, who looked after her as if she were a spirit, and 
then Bebe stepped from the library, the signs of tears 
upon her face. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 

A NEWSPAPER ACCOUNT. 

“You have come — you have come !” and Bebe flung 
herself into Vida’s arms, her pretty face quivering with 
grief. “ Oh, where have you been ? Why did you 
stay away so long ? What does it all mean ? Sidney 
was here — ” 

“ Was here ?” and Viga became suddenly rigid and 
cold, a chill in her tone. “Was here? Then he has 
gone ?” 

“Yes, he has gone. Oh, come in here, Vida dear ; 
there is a Are ! You are so cold.” 

She led the way to the dining-room. In the grate a 
Are was slowly dying and on the mantel stood some 
lighted candles. Vida caught sight of her face in a 
mirror, and of Bebe clinging to her. How strange 
they looked, both still in their ball gowns, the early 
sunlight stealing wistfully through the windows, the 
neglected candles flaring on the mantel. Over the 
whole house there was an aroma of calamity, a mys- 
terious sense of something forever departed, as if death 
had suddenly crossed the threshold. 

Bebd placed Vida in a chair, while her tear-stained 
eyes. Ailed with anxious wonder, were fixed upon the 
pure, pale face, which seemed a mask for some terrible 
secret. 

“ Sidney has gone ?” came in a monotonous whisper 
[196] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


197 


from Vida’s lips. “ Gone — without a word — without a 
word ! And such a journey ! Oh, pitying God, such a 
journey ! Help him — help him !” she moaned. 

Bebe sank on her knees and forced Vida to look at 
her. 

You must tell me, dear,” she said, coaxingly. “I 
ought to know. vSomething terrible has happened. 
What, oh, what ? Who were these men who came with 
Sidney ? Why did they stay beside him all the while 
he wrote the letters which he dispatched Ruggles with ? 

I saw them. One was to his lawyers, the other to his 
partner. And here are two more — one for you and 
one for Aunt Madge in Washington.” 

Vida took the letter and opened it eagerly. It took 
but a moment to read it. She crushed it in her hand 
and closed her eyes in pain. 

“ I feel so cold, so sad, so strange. Oh, darling, what 
does it mean ? Why did he look so sad ? Why were 
there tears in his eyes when he kissed me ? What did 
he mean when he said : ‘Will I ever see you again, 
little Bebe ? Ever again ?’ Vida, where have they 
taken him ?” 

She wound her soft, rounded arms around Vida’s 
neck, and laid her cheek against her shoulder. The 
attitude was one of protection and appeal. 

“ You will know very soon, Bebe. Ah, very soon.” 
Vida roused herself, seized the girl by the shoulders, 
and brought her burning eyes close to the innocent, 
wondering ones which met hers. “ But remember, you 
must not believe what they say. It’s not true. No, it 
is not true.” 

Tenderly and shudderingly she looked at the written 
lines again. They were without beginning and with- 
out signature : 

“You may never return to Applethoi'pct I do not know, But 


198 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


if you do, dispose of it as you see fit. Bebe I am sending to 
Washington. We will never meet again. Better so. Do not 
be impatient. Perhaps the law will find me guilty and give you 
your freedom very soon. If not — if I should be declared innocent 
of this crime — a divorce can, nevertheless, be easily obtained in a 
Western court.” 

This was all. And how it rankled ! It told her the 
past was past forever. No estrangement could be 
more complete. No reproach, no regrets. He thought 
it too late for that. No declaration of his innocence. 
It was as if he were addressing a mere acquaintance 
— one taking a passing interest in his life. Sending 
Bebe away, too ! Did that not suggest his opinion of 
her unworthiness and unfitness to take care of her ? 

How bitter it was ! How bitter ! There seemed 
no future for her. Everything was swallowed up in 
pain for the present. 

An hour later, Vida lay on the couch in her room, 
wrapped in a loose robe. She was trying to think of 
what there was to be done, and what way her course 
should lie. She determined to follow Sidney, to hover 
around him, even though he guessed it not, to know 
the details of his life, to watch, to hope. 

Why could she not hate him, after all that Clyde 
Hastings had said ? Did she believe the story of Aloha 
true ? Perhaps. The story of the murder ? No. Yet, 
despite the first awful uncertainty in her mind, his 
wretchedness in his present position made her pity 
him and yearn for him. Ah, it was a sad luxury to be 
able to pity him, while there was still one doubt of his 
untruth to her ! 

Her maid had brought breakfast, and had carried it 
back untouched ; but she had hardly left the room 
when the door was opened with a rush and Bebd flew 
to her side. A newspaper was clutched in her hand ; 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


199 


her blue eyes were widened in an expression of fear ; 
the young face had aged strangely. She came to 
Vida’s side. 

“You did not tell me,” she said brokenly, “because 
you knew it would break my heart ! Oh, do you know 
what they are saying of Sidney here ? Do you know ? 
They say he murdered Allan Love, Felix’s father. 
Think of it ! Think of it ! And Felix must believe it. 
Ah, that ’s why he went away without a word ! What 
could he say ? What would be the use of words ? His 
father’s body found, and Sidney accused of killing him! 
This is what he meant, months ago, when he spoke of 
disgrace parting us. It has come ! It has come ! 
Felix hoped it was not true, and became Sidney’s 
friend. But he heard of this — this awful body found ! 
— and he went away. How horribly clear all is now ! 
Oh, Sidney — dear, dear Sid ! — what brutes to think 
you could have done this 1” 

She flung the paper passionately before Vida. No 
need to look very far nor very long. The head-lines 
flamed before her eyes : 

‘‘AN OLD MURDER DISCOVERED. 

‘‘For more than a year the unexplained absence of Allan 
Love, the well-known mine owner, resident of Honolulu and 
San Francisco, has puzzled all who knew him. Many conjectures 
were rife as to his disappearance, and for the first few months 
but little was thought seriously of it, as he was eccentric in his 
habits of life, rich and a persistent traveller. However, as all 
advertisements and inquiries availed nothing, and he seemed to 
have absolutely disappeared from the face of the earth, one 
rumor grew and spread: This was the event of a snowy 
night last winter, the last time that human eyes rested upon 
Allan Love. At that time he was seen in San Francisco 
with Sidney Raritan, the purchaser of the great Latour mine, 
which proved a bonanza. It was strange to see the two men to- 
gether, as their enmity since Allan sold the mine to Raritan had 


200 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


been well known. He had disposed of it at a small sum as al- 
most worthless. Raritan was more patient, and found it a veri- 
table gold mine. They were known to be rivals in business, 
though formerly fast friends, and it was rumored that they were 
rivals in love for the hand of Aloha Brysdale, one of the prettiest 
English girls in Honolulu. When, therefore, they were seen to- 
gether by mutual friends in San Francisco the incident was com- 
mented upon. It has never been explained. That night the 
two set out on a journey across the plains. It was one of the 
wildest nights of the winter; still they went on — but where and 
for what reason has remained a mystery. Allan Love was never 
seen again. Sidney Raritan went East, where, by reason of his 
wealth and social position, he became one of the representative 
young men of New York. He married a very beautiful woman, 
formerly the wife of Ripley Hetherford. Life went very well 
with him. 

“ An astounding piece of news has just come from the West, 
however, and Sidney Raritan is to-day an accused murderer. 
The body of Allan Love has been found in a remote, sheltered 
pool near Draxton, Arizona. It is, of course, almost unrecog- 
nizable, but marks upon the clothing prove its identity. The 
interest in this remarkable case is, however, centered around a 
small, red, rain-soaked and sodden memorandum-book discov- 
ered in the mud of the bank. To think that a man’s fate hangs 
upon such a trifle, and that a memorandum-book may be the 
means of putting the gallows’s rope on Sidney Raritan’s neck ! 
The book was his, the last entry in it being made on the day be- 
fore he left San Francisco with Love, the words being: ‘Meet 
Love at four.’ 

“ Last night the officers sent by the coroner arrived in New 
York from Arizona. Raritan was at the splendid ball given by 
Mrs. Frankland to several distinguished foreigners, and the de- 
tectives, anxious to secure him, as they had learned of his inten- 
tion to leave America on the following day, went to the Fifth 
Avenue mansion on their ghastly errand. He was not there, 
however, having left just before the close of the ball, and he was 
traced to the rooms of his friend, Mr. Clyde Hastings, at the 
Lombard apartments. 

“ To-day he leaves for the West to stand trial for his life. The 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


201 


circumstantial proof against him is at present significant, and in 
all probability will be strengthened. His hurried preparations to 
leave the country seem very suspicious, and Mr. Sidney Raritan 
will have a good deal to explain.” 

Vida read this to the last word, and the blank an- 
guish in her face stabbed Bebd’s heart. She stooped 
and kissed her. 

“ Poor dear,” she said in her caressing way, ‘‘ how 
hard this is for you ! You will go to Sidney, of course. 
He will want you ! He will need you.” 

An ache rose in Vida’s throat. 

“ I will go to him — yes, I will !” she said, and set 
her little teeth, ’and thought drearily of Sidney’s altered 
love. 

“You did not tell me where you went last night from 
Mrs. Frankland’s. Sidney seemed anxious — and then 
his returning without you ! Oh, I was full of such awful 
fears. Had it anything to do with this ?” and her 
shuddering eyes rested on the paper where she had 
read the destruction of her own love dream as well as 
the menace to her brother’s life. 

But Vida was spared the necessity of answering by 
an interruption. The maid entered. 

“ If you please, ma’am, Mr. Raritan’s valet says he 
supposes he ’s not needed here any more, and, as his 
wages are paid up, he is going.” 




CHAPTER XXVIII. 

FELIX AWAKENS TO THE TRUTH. 

Snow covered all the land, a snow of late November. 
It was a marvel of beauty and unbroken whiteness 
from which the sunlight struck diamond-like gleams ; 
the trees were feathery with frost tracery ; the air 
had that bracing freshness which comes only from 
winter’s coldness mixed with a blue sky and a vividly 
bright sun. 

In the deep casement of one of the upper windows 
of Applethorpe Bebe sat alone, gazing at the far-away 
glimpse of the Hudson, heaving sullenly under its pall 
of floating ice. She was quite alone in the big, empty 
room, her hands strenuously clasping her knees, her 
fixed eyes dark with the subtle expression of fear 
which never left them now, gazing into space. 

She thought of Vida chained to Applethorpe by a 
fever which drained her strength — a prisoner there 
while she fretted against her captivity, her soul filled 
with a sick longing to see Sidney, to hear his voice say 
he forgave and believed in her, to be the sharer of his 
grief, to shed, if possible, one ray of light into the 
blackness which had so suddenly and terribly envel- 
oped him. 

She thought of Felix Love. Where was he ? Where 
had he fled? The case was dark against Sidney in the far 
[202] 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 203 

West. Trifles, in themselves of no importance, yet 
frightfully portentous when considered with the cir- 
cumstances of the crime, had made a chain to bind 
him, in which there was but one link missing — the 
presence of Felix Love, the dead man’s son, as a most 
important witness. He had seen the accused man and 
his supposed victim on their way to the train the night 
Allan Love disappeared mysteriously ; he had spoken 
to him. It was hoped by the prosecuting lawyers 
that he might throw much light on the case, particu- 
larly as he had known Sidney in New York during the 
fall. 

But no one knew where Felix was. His chambers 
were found in perfect order ; no signs were there to 
tell of a sudden journey. His servant had not seen 
him for a fortnight since he had started for a ride, and 
his horse was missing from the stable where he kept 
it. If he had wished to emulate his father’s story for 
the past year of mystery, he could not have accom- 
plished his purpose more successfully. 

“ It is all strange ; it is all horrible !” came in a 
whisper from Bebe’s lips, as she climbed wearily from 
her seat and went back to her watch by Vida’s bedside. 

The nurse was there, but only in Bebes presence did 
the unhappy woman find a sense of comfort. The 
golden head was raised from the pillow as she entered, 
and the hands were stretched out pleadingly. 

“ What news, dear ? Have you heard anything 
more ?” 

“ Cousin Tom has hardly had time to get out West, 
you know, dear, and Sid’s lawyers sent such a full ac- 
count by this morning’s mail. We must wait, dear. 
We must be patient, Vida, darling.” 

Vida layback and closed her eyes, then opened them, 

shuddering. 


204 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Oh, my thoughts — my thoughts ! If only my brain 
could cease its work for a little while,” she moaned. 

“ You must take a soothing draught ; then perhaps 
you ’ll sleep,” said the nurse, holding the glass to her 
lips. 

“ Oh, no ; that stupefies me. I don’t want to be 
plunged into unconsciousness. I want to know when 
word comes — the word of death or life. Bebe, do you 
think there will be a telegram to-night ?” 

“ Perhaps ! But you see they are waiting for Felix 
Love. When they have quite given him up, perhaps 
the case will be determined without him. Oh, Vida, 
I ’m glad he ran away. He wouldn’t do anything to 
hurt Sidney ; he ’d die first and her eyes were dewy 
with tears, as, kneeling beside the bed, she caressed 
Vida’s pale, cold hands. 

“ They must free him,” came in a harsh breath from 
Vida’s tense lips. “ Oh, God wouldn’t let them kill 
him, my brave fellow, on such evidence ! They are 
hungry for his life out in that wild, bleak place, Bebe. 
They would like to see him die. Why, they think 
nothing of shedding blood in those outlaw regions and 
the witnesses were perjured. What does it matter to 
them — a human life, even though innocent ? One 
human life — but, ah, that life makes my world !” 

Only the ticking of the clock was heard in the quiet 
room for awhile, a sigh, a broken word, a faltering 
prayer. 

Meanwhile, the house by the river held two secrets 
instead of one. Since the night he was flung from his 
horse, Felix had lain on a bed of pain. He had been 
unconscious, and attended by a discreet physician who 
had seen only old Remus, and who asked no questions 
as long as his fee was bestowed with the required 
regularity. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


205 


Now Felix was better, the physician had been dis- 
pensed with, but the garret room where he lay, weak 
and mystified, remained locked. Usually his food had 
been placed in the room while he slept, but twice he 
had seen Theodore Griggs carry in the tray, and, of 
course, he did not dream he w’as looking upon Mr. 
Raritan’s French valet, whom he had once seen. 

“ Look here,” he had said in his impulsive way. 
“ Where the deuce am I ? Is this a sort of hospital ? 
I know I was flung from Prince’s back ; my riding togs 
have recalled that to my mind. I Ve been here a day or 
tw^o, I suppose ?” and he swept his hand over his thick 
hair. 

“ For the present you ’d better not talk ; you ’ll get 
perfectly well all the sooner. You’re in good hands. 
Just rest, be quiet. You ’ll find some good books over 
there — Dumas, Hugo, Rider Haggard — all exciting. 
Amuse yourself and don’t worry. Those are the doc- 
tor’s orders.” 

With these words Mr. Griggs turned on his heel and 
decamped. 

Felix could say “By Jove !” as often as he liked, 
frown, stamp, and tug at his embryo mustache until it 
was almost effaced — it did no good. He was left alone 
in that maddeningly quiet room, and whether he were 
two miles or two hundred from New York he had not 
the faintest idea. In vain he looked from the window 
trying to recall some point in the landscape. Both the 
lonely river beside which he had ridden and the gables 
of Applethorpe could only be seen from fhe front of the 
house, and this room was in the back. 

On this winter day Felix was almost mad with im- 
patience. True, he had written letters to Bebe and 
his servant, which Theodore Griggs had very obligingly 
taken to post, but no answer had reached him from 


m 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


either, and he began to demand angrily why he, now 
perfectly recovered, should still be kept there, the 
doors locked. He must have his freedom. This mys- 
tery, whatever it meant, had lasted long enough. True, 
he was still weak, but he would choose another place 
to recover in, rather than that small, lonely room. 

He was standing in the middle of the floor, his 
hands in his pockets, a novel flung face downward at 
his feet, when the door was unlocked and Theodore 
Griggs came in. His smile was positively sweet, his 
manner affable. 

“ How are you to-day ?” he asked, as he placed the 
tray of food on the table. 

Felix was looking past him at the door. 

Will you tell me,” he said, abruptly, “ why some 
one always locks that door on the outside as soon as 
you come in?” 

“You are mistaken, my dear boy. The lock is auto- 
matic.” 

“Who are the people in this house, that they seem 
determined I shall not leave the place ? I insist on 
knowing !” he said imperiously. “ 1 Ve been patient 
long enough, but I won’t stand this inexplicable busi- 
ness much longer ! No, by Heaven !” 

Mr. Griggs shook his head sadly, as if pained at the 
sight of such ingratitude. 

“ These people saved your life, my dear boy.” 

“ I know that — I 'm willing to be as grateful as any 
one could wish — I ’m willing to pay them back every 
cent, and more than they spent on me — but I won’t be 
locked in. Look here ! What does it mean, anyway ? 
How far am I from New York ?” 

“ Tut — tut ! Not so fast. That ’s neither here nor 
there. If your friends think it best to prevent your 
impetuous escape until you are quite better — why, hu* 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


207 


mor them. Now, then, I Ve a piece of news for you 
and as he spoke he slowly unfolded a newspaper. 

A shadowy premonition swept over Felix ; all his 
bravado left him ; he felt that the newspaper in the 
strange man’s hand would mean something vital to 
him, for good or ill. 

“You told me your name was Felix Love?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, they are searching for you.” 

“ My friends ? No wonder. And you have kept me 
here — you and your confederates — probably to get 
money from me as the price of liberty ;” and the hot 
blood leaped to Felix’s face. “ At last I begin to see 
my suspicions were correct.” 

“ My young friend, you were never farther from the 
actual truth of the case. You are wanted not by your 
fashionable friends in New York — not only by them, at 
least — not by your pretty sweetheart alone either — but 
by the officers of the law, to have your testimony as to 
what you know of the relations which existed between 
your father and Sidney Raritan, when you saw them 
last together, what was said, and all the rest. Ah, now 
you pale — now you start back ! I have surprised you, 
have I ?” And Theodore Griggs winked his eye. 

“ Go on !” said Felix, fiercely. “ Why am I wanted ? 
What ’s — what ’s happened ?” And he thought of those 
menacing fears that not so long ago had threatened to 
separate him eternally from Bebe. 

“ It ’s just this,” said Theodore Griggs, hugging his 
leg : “ The body of Allan Love was found in a pool 

near Draxton, Arizona. He had been murdered.” 

“•Good heavens !” And Felix stood absolutely still, 
his eyes fastened stonily on the detective’s face. 

“ Yes, indeed. He was murdered, poor man — mur- 
dered beyond a doubt. If you read this you will see 


208 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


what proof is closing around Sidney Raritan, and you 
will see that the prosecuting attorneys are fiercely 
anxious for your presence there. You can forge the 
last link for the chain. Why do you look so ghastly ? 
Don’t you like the job ? But think — think ! Your 
father has been killed in a cruel way by the brother of 
the girl you would have married. A good thing you 
discovered this in time. Of course it is. Now eat and 
rest, for to-morrow you ’ll be given your liberty to go 
to Arizona and do your little part toward helping Sid- 
ney Raritan up the gallows steps.” 

Felix had taken the paper, and his eyes were de- 
vouring the details of the case. In his intense atten- 
tion he did not notice that Griggs had lightly tapped 
on the door. It was opened, and he silently withdrew. 
When Felix looked up, a score of burning questions on 
his lips, he found himself alone. 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

A REVELATION. 

Reaching the floor below, Theodore Griggs found 
his employer pacing the room in a state of nervous ex- 
citement and exhilaration. 

“Come in, Griggs, come in !” and he pointed with 
his draped arm to a telegram on the table. “ Read it !” 

It was twilight by this time, and in the red light at 
the window Griggs opened the yellow square of paper. 

Was it only the crimson from the west that made 
the words seem written in a haze of blood — those dire- 
ful words sent from the West by the paid watcher of 
Mr. Fairleigh ! 

^‘Raritan found guilty of murder in the first degree.” 

“ H’m !” and Theodore Griggs tapped the paper with 
his spectacles. “ So that means the worst for him — 
the very worst ! Poor devil ! Well, Fairleigh, you 
ought to be satisfied now. Whatever grudge you have 
against this man, it ’s going to be glutted with a venge- 
ance.” 

There was silence in the room, and then, from be- 
neath the folds, came slow, earnest words tinged by 
an eager longing that made the flesh creep on Griggs’s 
bones : 

“ And I can’t be there to see it !” 


[209] 


210 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Whew ! You ’re a nice, bloodthirsty gentleman, you 
are, upon my word ! By the way, wouldn’t it be terrible 
if this ghastly business was all a mistake — if the body 
found was somebody else, and Allan Love wasn’t dead 
at all — eh, now ?” 

“ Don’t be a fool ! How could there be a mistake ? 
Why hasn’t Love answered any of the many inquiries 
sent broadcast for him ? Why has no one seen him ? 
Bah ! The man is dead. Ah, how well I remember 
him ! How often he has told me of the feud between 
Raritan and himself ! He knew something of happi- 
ness until that man crossed his path. After that all 
went wrong with him ; he lost a good part of his 
wealth — ^he was unlucky ; doom followed him of every 
sort. I knew him well ; I know what he suffered. I 
have reasons of my own for hating Raritan, but I 
would be glad to see him done for, as a sort of mem- 
orial to ill-starred Allan Love, if for no other reason.” 

“Well, well ! It may be as you say,” and Griggs 
looked meditative. “ Still, I can’t help feeling a bit 
sorry for Sidney Raritan. He seemed a fine fellow, 
not the sort who usually stand in a prisoner’s dock. It 
has always seemed to me that he could, if he liked, 
give an explanation of the night he started off in the 
snow with Allan Love. Of course, I may be wrong, 
but at times it has seemed to me that he might, for 
quixotic reasons, be shielding some woman. He ’s 
just that sort of fellow.” 

“ Your fancies are absurd. Let ’s say no more about 
them, if you please. I want to ask you a few ques- 
tions. Will you kindly be seated? Felix Love has 
read of his father’s murder, the finding of the body 
and all the rest ? How did he act ?” 

“Well, it stunned him. I never saw a healthy face 
grow so white,” said Griggs, in a tone of thoughtful 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


211 


sadness. It means a good deal to him, you know. 
Besides the horror of his father’s fate, this makes him 
renounce the girl he loves — Bebe Raritan. By the 
way, you can let him go to-morrow. He ’s almost mad 
with impatience, and there ’s no danger of his return- 
ing to his sweetheart now.” 

“ To-morrow ? Yes, I ’ll give him a day to get over 
the shock. Had Raritan not been convicted as yet, 
I ’d have had you hustle him off as a witness as soon 
as he was able to sit up ; but he ’s not needed now,” 
said Mr. Fairleigh, in a tone of deep content. 

“ I ’ll be back again,” said Theodore Griggs shortly, 
and left the place. 

Once outside the house a change passed over his 
face ; he clenched his hands and frowned. 

“ Diabolical !” he said, fiercely. “ Di-a-bol-ical !” 

Darkness had swept down, and Applethorpe lay in a 
shadow as he paused at the turn of the road command- 
ing a view of it. A light burned in an upper window. 
He knew it was the room where Vida lay prostrated, 
half mad with grief. 

“ Do they know yet, I wonder ?” he asked himself. 
“ I venture to say that this night will be the blackest 
in the life of the two women watching there. H’m ! 
What a world of care and cross-purposes it is ! The 
good people are right when they call it a vale of 
tears.” 

The scene in that sick chamber might have wrung 
a Spartan heart. There are many sorts of grief, and 
there may be a controversy as to which is the more 
awful — disgrace or death ; but when both are mixed 
in the cup of fate the dregs of anguish are tasted. 
This was the draught which Vida in her wretchedness 
and remorse quaffed that never-to-be-forgotten night, 
as, despite the warnings of her nurse, she paced the 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


212 


room, but one refrain coming in a chilling whisper 
from her white lips : 

“ Sidney is to die !” 

In the house by the river, every room, save the one 
which held Felix a prisoner^ was quiet. He had deter- 
mined to leave it, and leave it that night. 

What sort of place was this which held him ? What 
sort of people had constituted themselves his jailers ? 
There was no malice in their attitude, for the food 
given him was plenteous, good and daintily served. 
Yet they must have an object, and a strong one, for de- 
taining him there. 

Fully dressed, he sat on the side of his bed and tried 
to unravel the myster}^ 

“ It must be that these people are friends of Raritan, 
determined to prevent my appearing at the trial ! 
That 's it,” he thought. “ I ’d rather not believe it of 
him, but I can’t see any other explanation. I must 
leave here to-night, get to my rooms and prepare to go 
West. My duty is now to my father. All doubts are 
at rest. He was murdered ; and if by Sidney Raritan, 
he must suffer for it.” 

Before him the sweet, arch face of Bebe rose tempt- 
ingly and appealingly, but he sternly hardened his 
heart against the lovely vision. All that was over. He 
would suffer even more than he was suffering now ; 
yes — yes ; but still he must think only of Bebe Raritan 
as if she were dead. 

There was a determined, bitter expression on his 
young face as he stood up, the first clang of the bell 
sounding on the quiet night. 

“ This is my chance. I ’ll have finished by the time 
the last stroke has been given,” he muttered ; and from 
its hiding-place he took a knife he had secreted earlier 
in the day after his dinner had been brought him. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


213 


Dexterously, rapidly and as silently as possible, he 
began to use this in prying open the lock of the door. 
The knife was clumsy, but fortunately the door was 
old and the lock loose in its fastenings. Before the 
clock had struck seven he heard the rasping sound that 
told him he was free. The door stood open. 

Without delaying a momant, he put on his hat and 
stepped into the dark hallway. Not a sound broke the 
stillness. He felt encouraged, and descended the stairs 
with swift, light steps. Every sense was on the alert 
for a sound, a movement, but none came, and he 
reached the ground floor unmolested. To his amaze- 
ment the front door stood wide open. So much the 
better ; and in a few moments he found himself in the 
narrow strip of garden. 

Overhead, in a sky heaped with masses of dark 
clouds, the moon sailed lonesomely, now plunging be- 
hind a vaporous bank, now peering out as if from a 
casement. This fitful light made the scene around 
him peculiarly strange and ghostly. He looked up at 
the shuttered house, the garden under its pall of snow, 
and then at the river just beyond the path, giving out 
steely gleams whenever the moonlight touched it. 

“Why, I know this house !” thought Felix. “I re- 
member passing it every time I rode to Applethorpe. 
To think I have been lying here, for how long Heaven 
only knows, so close to — Bebd. I remember that a 
strange, monkish-looking individual frightened Prince 
that night, and sent him on the mad gallop which flung 
me off when he struck the stile — " 

His meditations ceased, a thrill of horror went 
through him, and he moved back, sheltered by the 
angle of the house, for out through the open door 
came the figure he had been speculating about, a mov- 
ing mystery — something about him so suggestive of 


214 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


silence and pain, his heart contracted in gazing 
upon it. 

The figure passed into the snowy road, and under 
the snow-laden trees moved slowly beside the river. 
Quivering with curiosity about this strange creature 
who had been his jailer for so long, Felix hurried after 
him, though keeping a considerable distance behind. 

It was an exciting adventure, and the mystery made 
Felix’s heart glow for the moment as if he had drunk 
deeply of wine. A strange feeling assailed him — a 
desire to discover the identity of this strange being at 
all hazards — to tear away the protecting cloth and 
look upon his face. Who was he ? Why did he garb 
himself in this mysterious way ? But stranger, more 
inexplicable still, why had he cared for him while mak- 
ing a prisoner of him ? 

These thoughts had hardly sped through his mind 
before a strange thing occurred. He saw the draped 
form stagger against a tree for support ; he saw him 
clutch wildly at the folds of cloth above his heart, a 
hoarse moan echoed on the night air, and he fell, his 
dark robes outspread like a huge blot upon the snow. 

In a moment Felix was beside him. He knelt down, 
pushed back the thick, sheltering hood that the night 
breeze might revive him, and loosened the close bands 
around the throat. The moon was behind one of the 
huge banks of cloud, and the features were hidden 
from him in the shadow, but when the great globe of 
pearl came swimming into the clear sky, he bent his 
head eagerly, his breath delayed upon his parted lips. 
The inmate of the house by the river was unconscious ; 
he could not see the young face so close, so intent 
above him ; he could not answer the look growing in 
those keen, young eyes — the look of unbelief, of frenzied 
amazement, of shivering horror. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


215 


Heavens 1” He started to his feet, icy sweat upon 
his brow, a feeling like death at his heart, appalled at 
the revelation which the moon had disclosed. 

At his feet lay — his father ! Yes, he knew that face 
despite the hideous changes branded upon it ; he knew 
in that one glance why he had hidden himself from 
the world. Everything that had puzzled him was 
swept away as a mist is driven back by lances of the 
sun. His father — alive — and Sidney Raritan perhaps 
now condemned to death for a murder he had never 
committed ! 

How long Felix stood gazing down on that ghastly 
face he could not tell. But steps and a voice aroused 
him. Some one was calling : 

Mas'r Fairleigh ! Mas’r — mas’r ?” and the tones 
were trembling, fearsome, and full of anxiety. 

Determined to see the matter to the end, Felix 
stepped behind a tree as an old, bent figure hurried 
forward through the moonlight, now as bright as day. 

It was old Remus, and Felix knew him at a glance. 
If he had been inclined to doubt his senses before, to 
think himself the prey of a moonlight hallucination or 
a feverish fancy, Remus’s appearance would have dis- 
pelled them. 

The old man bent over his master’s form, evidently 
aghast at finding the face uncovered. A cry of fear 
broke from him, and lifting his head he peered cau- 
tiously around. 

Felix could not wait another second. He bounded 
out and seized Remus by the shoulders. 

“You know me, don’t you, Remus ? Oh, yes, I un- 
derstand all now,” came in quick, breathless sentences 
from his lips. “ You have had me in the same house 
with you for weeks past. I have escaped. There lies 
— my father.” 


216 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Old Remus continued to gaze at him as if he had been 
a specter risen before him, his eyes distended under 
the shaggy, gray brows, his shaking hands lifted before 
him, as if to ward off the approach of something 
fearful. 

At length he gained his voice, and the instinct was 
strong in him to protect his master at any cost. 

“ I know you, honey. Yas, in course. I 'm old Re- 
mus. I ben with Mr. Fairleigh some time as servant. 
He ’s a sick gen’leman, Mas’r Felix. That 's him, 
right thar — that ’s him. Youah father is daid — didn’t 
you know ? — foun’ daid, and Mr. Raritan killed him — 
shuah.” 

Felix shook the old, quivering form from him, and 
the moonlight made his stern, young face terrible in its 
pallor. 

“ Don’t lie to me ! The game is up, I tell you. See 
here,” and he took the old man by the arm while he 
pointed down to the uncovered face, over which the 
moonlight had shed a strange, greenish radiance ; “ I 
know that man is my father. I know the secret which 
has made him hide from the world. Yes, you may 
well shudder. I didn t live in Honolulu for nothing. 
My father is alive. Ah, better for himself if he were 
dead, for he is a leper as white as snow ?” 




CHAPTER XXX. 

A BITTER DILEMMA. 

Tears glistened in Felix’s eyes as he spoke those last 
terrible words, and Remus, with a cry of hopeless de- 
feat and anguish, fell to his knees and buried his head 
upon the silent breast of his master. 

A leper ! A victim of the white curse which sent 
men and women into an isolation so terrible that death 
had seemed ecstasy beside it ! This fate was his father’s, 
and Felix felt his heart shaken to its core. 

He roused Remus, and together they bore the silent 
form down the snowy, moonlit road to the quiet house 
which had been a secret shelter for so many months. 
Question after question beat in Felix’s brain ; picture 
after picture rose before him. His father had disap- 
peared, had never dared return to settle up his affairs 
in Honolulu, as life in the leper colony would have 
been his. He understood that, and he thought he un- 
derstood Sidney Raritan’s terrible position. Suspicion 
had pointed to him, and chance circumstantial evi- 
dence had done the rest. Oh, thank Heaven, the charge 
against him was not true ! He would be saved from 
death now ! 

It was dawn before Felix heard a voice answer old 
Remus in the adjoining room, and, standing at the 
door, he listened. 

“ Why do you look at me that way, Remus ? I know 

[217] 



218 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


I have been ill again — fell down, didn’t I ? Ah, this 
treacherous heart of mine ! How often will it play 
me false before the end really comes ?” 

“ Mas’r — oh, mas’r — I don’t know how to tell you — ” 
and Remus’s voice broke in a sob. 

“ What is it ? Speak — speak !” And Felix, through 
the half-opened door, saw his father start up and seize 
Remus’s arm. “ No one — saw me — not that — ” 

“ Yas, sah ; jest so. I went after you when I missed 
you, and — and — I don’ know how he got out of the 
room, but — ” 

“ Felix !” rang out in a wild cry of dismay and ter- 
ror. “ He has looked on this face of mine, has he ? 
He knows all — knows I am alive ? Oh, Heaven ! Oh, 
Heaven !” 

Every pulse was quivering ; his heart was on fire as 
Felix listened, and, obeying an impulse, he stepped 
suddenly into the room. The drooping cowl was lifted 
a little, and there was a baleful radiance in the hid- 
den eyes that, from the shadow, gazed out at him. 

“ Father, haven’t you one word of love for me ? Oh, 
think — think what finding you means to me, who but a 
few hours ago thought of you as dead — as murdered ! 
You have a word of love for me, dad, haven’t you ?” 
and he approached impulsively, with outstretched 
hands. 

Allan Love retreated. 

“ Stay there ! Don’t touch me ! I cannot bear it !” 
and he sank down beside the table, murmuring de- 
spairingly : Is all lost — lost ?” 

Felix, in his impetuous way, leaned across the table 
toward him, his frank eyes aglow. 

“ You hid from me, father. Why did you do it ? 
Surely when this curse fell upon you, you should have 
come to me. No one would have been more faithful, 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


219 


no one would have guarded your secret so tenderly. 
Why, dad, I ’d have died for you ! Don’t you know 
that ?” 

“ Would you ?” asked Allan Love, suddenly. “ Well, 
I shall not require such a sacrifice as that. Will you 
be silent ? Will you keep my secret, now that you know 
it ? Will you let another man — die for me ?” 

A ghastly grayness overspread Felix’s face, and in 
the raw half-light he looked spectral. 

“You don’t mean” — but the words faltered — “you 
can’t mean that you will permit the law to take Sidney 
Raritan’s life for a crime he is innocent of ? You don’t 
mean that ?” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

For a moment Felix seemed stricken dumb, a horror 
deepening in his eyes. 

“I wish I had not lived to hear you say those words,” 
he said in a slow, earnest tone. “ What you ask is im- 
possible. Sidney Raritan must be freed from the 
charge of murder, and without dela)^” 

“ And what of me ?” asked Allan Love. “That hap- 
pens — and what becomes of me ? Think of this, Felix 
Love, and remember you are my son.” 

“ Can you not write and say you are living, so that 
the law will give Raritan his liberty, then you go away 
secretly ? No one need ever know your secret. I will 
go with you, dad. I will dedicate my life to you while 
you live. Only save Sidney Raritan ! Save him !” 

Allan Love arose, and a low exclamation of im- 
patience broke from him. 

“ Listen to me, if you please, and let there be an end 
to this mawkish nonsense. I have always been a ten- 
der father with you. You remember my love, my care ! 
That was before I became the thing that I am — before 
a poison entered my soul and turned every bit of sweet- 


220 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


ness in my nature to something more bitter than worm- 
wood. Now I am stern, invincible to pity. Why 
should I show mercy — I to whom no mercy has been 
shown by God or man ? Sidney Raritan is the one man 
in all the world I hate. When I heard you were going 
to marry his sister, I felt that, compared with such an 
event, I would rather you died suddenly in the heyday 
of your life — your young, splendid strength. I meant 
to keep you from it somehow, and that night, when 
you were thrown from your horse at my very door, it 
seemed the work of a kind fate. I kept you here. I 
would have kept you forever rather than have had you 
return to that girl. But the news of her brother’s ar- 
rest I saw made a complete barrier between you, 
and I had intended to let you go your way on the 
morrow.” 

He paused in the excited stream of his talk, while 
Felix, fascinated, rigid, dumb, waited for the next 
words. 

“ Circumstantial evidence has marked Sidney Rari- 
tan as my murderer. This is false, you say ? Not as 
false as you may think. I am worse than dead, and 
he was the evil genius of my life. If he is liberated, 
it must be because Allan Love is living ; and Allan 
Love, to be proved living, must be seen, identified be- 
yond all doubt. Now do you understand ? You must 
choose on which side you will stand — whether you will 
free Sidney Raritan and send me to a life on some 
isolated island — Molokai or elsewhere — or let him die 
in my stead. Think over it, my son.” 

With these words, he pushed aside the portiere and 
left Felix alone in the room, a look like death in his 
young face. 

A stealthy footstep awoke him from the reverie 
into which he had fallen, and, looking up, he saw 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


221 


Theodore Griggs standing regarding him with a half- 
quizzical expression. 

He placed his fingers to his lips to insure silence. 

“ Poor boy, I heard all. It ’s rather a difficult situ- 
ation for you, isn’t it ? For all he said is true,” he 
whispered. 

There was a shrewd twinkle in the gray eyes as he 
shook his head solemnly, and taking Felix by the arm, 
led him to a secluded room, closing the door carefully. 

Felix looked up at him in mute appeal. 

“ Heaven, how awful ! What am I to do ? Is there 
no way out of this ? Must one or the other suffer?” 
he asked, a hoarse, strenuous note in his voice. 

“ Without a doubt. If you release Sidney Raritan 
you send your father to a death in life. Think of the 
horror of any leper settlement ! Here they would 
send him to share the exile of a few Chinamen whose 
condition beggars, description, or they might send him 
back to Molokai, since it appears he contracted the 
disease in Honolulu. It ’s a very hard position for 
you, and the worst of it is, there ’s no way out of it.” 

“ What must I do ?” asked Felix. “ What would you 
do ? Show me where I stand — do, in pity’s name — for 
the events of this night have crushed all but the 
sense of suffering out of me. It is not right, it can- 
not be right, to let an innocent man die, even to save 
a father. I don’t believe it !” he burst out in anguhh. 
“I can’t do it.” And he thought of Sidney’s frank 
eyes, his young life so full of happiness and success ; 
of Vida, who loved Sidney ; and of Bebe, whom he 
loved. 

Theodore Griggs pursed up his mouth. 

“ Well, can you save him, and sacrifice your father ? 
There ’s the question.” 

“ I shall go and swear that I have seen my father 


222 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


alive, but that he has been terribly disfig^ured and can- 
not be seen ; that he has gone away to the other end 
of the world.” 

“ Useless, my dear boy, quite useless.” 

“ I ’ll bring a letter from him ; he ’ll surely give it to 
me ; one that will prove him alive beyond all doubt — 
his own handwriting.” 

A mere leaf on the wings of the storm. The pros- 
ecuting officers will pooh-pooh it, and say it is a dodge 
put up by Raritan’s family in the hope cf saving him. 
You would have your trouble for nothing, I assure 
you.” 

Felix buried his face in his hands, and for a few mo- 
ments he sat motionless. The detective laid his hand 
kindly on his bowed head. 

“You will never taste a moment as bitter as this in 
all your life again.” 

“ Is there no hope anywhere — no chance that some- 
thing may happen to save me from this ?” asked Felix, 
springing up and seizing Griggs’s hand. “ Think of 
what it means. If I remain silent, my life will be over, 
all ambition and hope will be killed in me. Just to 
think of that innocent man’s final moments will scorch 
my soul. Day and night the horror of it all will 
haunt me, and I will never know one moment of peace 
while I live. But I am not thinking of myself alone. 
It is of him — of Raritan — the victim of this terrible 
fatality, of those who love him — his wife, his sister. 
We pity the guilty wretch who dies such a death as 
this — the day and hour of the ignominy set for him ; 
but the thought of an innocent man giving up his life 
that way — oh, there is nothing to approach it ! It 
chills the soul — it appalls one !” 

The words were only a hoarse whisper, but theif 
reality made Griggs’s heart leap. 


THE HOUSE BV THE RlVER. 


m 


“ To help you, your father must not dream that I 
know his real name. Remember, to me he is still Mr. 
Fairleigh, as he would have been, of course, had I not 
overheard what he said to you just now. You will be 
careful not to betray me ?” 

Oh, yes, yes, yes." 

“ Well, then, listen," said Griggs, placing his lips 
to Felix’s ear. “ There is just one chance. Raritan 
may not be convicted. Be silent until the sentence 
comes." 

Ah, I had forgotten that," breathed Felix. “ I was 
so horrified at his being out there, 1 fancied all hope 
was gone. Oh, Heaven, that knowest all, let him be 
declared innocent — let him be set free !" and in a burst 
of wild sobs Felix flung himself upon his knees. Such 
a prayer, so full of wild entreaty, had never before 
crossed his young lips. 

Very quietly Theodore Griggs stole away. Outside 
the door he paused and wiped his brow. 

“ If he knew that Raritan was convicted I believe 
he ’d kill himself. Poor boy !" 

Then he went out in the early day, and a few mo- 
ments later the first train bore him cityward. He 
alighted at a spot where the country merged into the 
city and going down a shady, twisting side street, 
entered a telegraph office 




CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE COMING OF A STRANGER. 

It was rather earlier than the usual visiting- hour 
when Theodore Griggs entered the gates of Apple- 
thorpe and walked leisurely toward the house. He 
seemed interested in nothing more important than 
watching the marks his feet made upon the snow, 
and, in an unconcerned manner, a fragment of a song 
left his lips. 

Yet the place must have been full of memories for 
him. How often had he walked up that path as Etienne 
Oudry, which now he traversed as plain, practical 
Griggs, whose business consisted in finding out the 
secret intentions of other people and reporting them 
to those who employed him, be they private individ- 
uals or the State. 

“You will please take my card to Mrs. Raritan,” he 
said to the footman who opened the door. 

“ Mrs. Raritan has just been ill, sir, and is — ” 

“ About setting off for a journey to the West, despite 
the advice and expostulations of her friends and 
physicians. Kindly take her my card.” 

The man obeyed in a state of stupid surprise. He 
didn’t suppose any one knew of Mrs. Raritan’s resolve 
save those constantly around her, but he decided that 
[224! 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


225 


this stranger was probably going to accompany his 
mistress on the journey which he knew to be a sad 
and terrible one. 

Theodore Griggs entered the drawing-room. It was 
chill and desolate in the gloom, giving mute evidence 
of the fact that no steps save those of a housemaid had 
crossed its threshold for weeks. He thought of the 
night of the ball at Applethorpe — the night he had 
seen Felix kiss Bebe in the arbor. All was different 
now. 

A light, halting step, the rustle of feminine gar- 
ments, struck on his ear, and he stood up as Vida 
entered. It was evident she connected his visit with 
the one subject which engrossed all her thoughts — 
this stranger had brought news of Sidney. 

The sight of her face, so changed, the heavy travel- 
ling-dress hanging loosely on her wasted figure, caused 
Theodore Griggs a throb of pain unlike any he had 
experienced for years. How her dark eyes, varying 
in expression with a variety of emotion, tried to read 
his face. How her mute lips trembled, as she sank 
into a chair and, with loose-hanging arms that told of 
the despondency in her soul, waited in silence for him 
to address her. She had not spoken, and the theory 
which Theodore Griggs had arrived at from his many 
experiences was again verified : That when the heart 
is alive with fears, and the unuttered sob of suffering 
chokes the throat, the tongue is silent. 

“ My dear Mrs. Raritan,” he said, in his softest man- 
ner, and with an expression that was fatherly in the 
eyes usually so brilliant and keen, “ you do not know 
me — you never before heard my name, in all probabil- 
ity ; but I am familiar with your sorrow, and I have 
come to do you an act of kindness before you start on 
your journey to the West. Please do not think me 


226 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


impertinent. There is one question I would like to 
ask — rather, there are two." 

Vida roused herself, and though her sad eyes re- 
mained hopeless, she listened intently. This man had 
evidently something to say on the subject which en- 
grossed her every thought. But he could not save 
Sidney ; he had not come to say that — and what did 
anything else matter ? 

“ I would like to know," he said, soothingly, ‘‘ if you 
believe your husband guilty of the crime for which he 
is condemned ?" 

Vida’s dark eyes lightened for a second*; she flung 
up her head, and two feverish spots marked her thin 
cheeks. 

“ I do not. I believe him innocent, let them say 
what they will." 

“ H’m ! Now, then, do not be surprised, for I know 
everything connected with this whole case : Do you 
believe the woman named Aloha was or is anything to 
him — his wife or his mistress ?" 

“ Please do not ask me," she said, in a semitone of 
bitterness and anguish. “ I wish I could say no," she 
added suddenly, with feminine inconsistency. Oh, I 
wish I could ! I do not know what his life may have 
been before I met him — I do not know what his temp- 
tations were, and what this woman was to him has 
been explained. I know he loved me, and I can forgive 
him now. Ah, yes, now — when he is — to die. What 
does anything matter beside that ?" and her convulsed 
face sank to her bosom. 

“ Ah," said Theodore Griggs, sadly, “ that is true. 
Yet there are trifles that may serve to soften the blow 
at this time while they cannot avert it. Will you kindly 
read this document?" and he handed her a folded 
package. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


227 


She started as if stung when her eyes fell on Sid- 
ney’s writing — and the package was addressed to her. 
A light transfigured her face, a cry of joy broke from 
her lips. 

“ He has written to me ! Oh, he has forgiven me ! 
He sent you with this to me ? Oh, you must know him 
well — you are some friend — you pity — you believe in 
him ?” and she clasped the hand which held the pack- 
age. 

“ He never saw me in his life. He does not know my 
name. Now, please don’t ask any questions which I 
may not answer. Take this package to the window 
and read what is written on the pages enclosed. They 
are no message to you from his cell : they were writ- 
ten months ago, and every word is true.” 

“ Open it for me — I cannot,” Vida faltered, as she 
moved to a chair by the window. The burning tears 
had burst from her /charged heart and were sparkling 
upon her cheeks. 

How hungrily she took the papers, and there in 
the crude winter light, half-kneeling and half-sitting, 
her eyes slowly followed every word of the story 
which Sidney had penned before he had married her, 
the night that Hastings’s accusation had startled him. 

When the last word was read the papers fluttered 
to the floor, and Vida clasped her wasted hands as if in 
prayer. 

“ Forgive !” she moaned. “ Oh, darling — forgive — 
forgive !” 

Her husband’s heart had been opened before her — 
she saw all as plainly as if the circumstances described 
took place in a dream-world before her eyes. The 
night in the snow and the silence when he dared 
everything to force a villain to undo, as far as possible, 
his dastardly sin against a woman ; the firelit hut ; the 


228 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


sick girl ; his tenderness for Aloha ; his resolve, as he 
went homeward, that nothing should ever wring the 
night’s events from his lips ! 

And he had honorably kept that vow to shield a 
woman’s name, and through this loyalty had come all 
his undoing. 

“ What shall I do with this ?” Vida cried, excitedly, 
rising and dashing away her tears. “ Will this not 
help us to save him ? Oh, if he had spoken — if he had 
told why that strange journey was taken by Allan 
Love and himself he need not have been convicted ; 
this would have cleared him ! He would not speak ; 
his silence about that night was one of the things that 
helped to condemn him. He would not speak, but I 
— I shall speak for him !” 

She moved rapidly up and down the room, her 
cheeks stained by a wavering crimson, her eyes alight. 

“ Oh, why does not the woman whom he once righted 
at such cost come forward and save him now ? Is she 
a block of wood or stone ? Does she know of his posi- 
tion ? Does she know that they are going to take his 
life ?” 

She flung herself at Theodore Griggs’s feet and held 
out her prayerful arms. 

“You know where she is, perhaps! Oh, send for 
her — send for her. It is too late for her to think of 
herself. A man’s life is at stake — a good man’s life ! 
Oh, if you have any pity, send for her. She will be 
less than a woman if she does not come.” 

As she broke down after this wild prayer, Theodore 
Griggs moved to the window and arranged the shade 
with apparent carelessness. He said nothing, but 
stood looking down on the grief-stricken woman before 
him, a strange mist in his eyes. Was he waiting, 
listening for some one or something ? 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


229 


It would seem so, for, at that moment, there was a 
ring at the door, a few spoken words and a moment 
later a young woman in a dark, travelling cloak 
entered with a surety of step as if she had been ex- 
pected. 

Griggs motioned to her to remain silent, and when 
Vida looked up, her dark, tear-blotted eyes fell upon 
the stranger’s face. Questioningly she looked from 
the new-comer to Theodore Griggs. 

“ Who — who is this lady ?” she faltered. 

“ The days when fairies accomplished marvels are 
not past,” said Griggs, with a dry smile. “You called 
for Aloha, and she is here.” 

There was a breathless sob of joy, and Vida was in 
the stranger’s arms. 

“ I have come to save Sidney, if I can,” Aloha said, 
and her small, pretty, determined face was alight with 
a fierce purpose. If the telling of my wretched story 
will free him — then he shall be free.” 

She was very pretty, and so Bebd thought as she 
now stole wistfully from the curtains which had hid- 
den her. There was an air of the great world about 
her. She was dainty, with something of a French- 
woman’s chic in manner and expression. 

“ Let us sit down together, you sad, lovely creature,” 
she said, kissing Vida’s cold cheek impulsively. “ Mr. 
Griggs may amuse himself watching us if he likes. 
Now then ! I didn’t come on the wings of the winter 
wind in a chariot of cloud-foam at all. I landed in 
New York last night from the big Etruria^ and Mr. 
Griggs met me. How did he find me out in London ? 
I do not know ; but I suppose there is nothing impos- 
sible in these days of detectives and expert testimony. 
Well, I first heard of Sidney’s terrible position in the 
letter sent me by your kind friend here. An hour later 


230 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


brought me a blurred scrawl from Sidney. The dear 
fellow cautioned me against trying to save him by any 
quixotic idea of sacrificing myself, as Allan Love had 
been murdered, and circumstantial evidence pointed to 
him and him only. I knew I could not tell who had 
murdered my graceless husband, but I knew that pro- 
ceedings might be delayed and one mystery explained 
if I told why he went away with Allan Love, and 
where. So I came. And, dear, dear,” she said, caress- 
ingly, smoothing Vida’s bent head, “ wife of my best 
friend, I am going with you to him. May I kiss you ?” 

These words so won Bebe’s heart that she stole up, 
her flowerlike face quickened by emotion. Aloha 
looked at her in delight and surprise. 

“ Sidney’s sister ! I would know her anywhere. Is 
it not so ?” 

“Yes, and let me kiss you for his sake,” said Bebe, 
shyly. 

“ Why, you pretty thing — of course !” and she opened 
her arms gladly. 

What sunshine there was about her ! IIow .she re- 
vived their sinking hopes ! Her smile was winsome, 
her voice held a note of joy. 

“ Are you sad to think of what this disclosure will 
mean to you?” asked Vida, with a sincere tenderness. 
“ You are giving up much, and it is right ; but you 
seem happy to go.” 

A smile twinkled in Aloha’s eyes. 

“ I am happy — ah, so happy that I may be able to do 
something for Sidney — him who did so much for me ! 
But the dread of shame and scandal is over. I used to 
dread the world. Now when my world means one big, 
handsome fellow, six feet two, who knows all, still 
loves me, and wants me — what does anything else mat- 
ter ? As soon as I return to England I shall marry 


THE HOUSE EY THE RIVER. 


^31 


Lord Richard Germon, of Wessex Court. When the world 
— the other big, cruel world — knows that I, a trusting 
child, was cruelly dealt with, and turns its shoulder on 
me in consequence, I shall have him. I care for noth- 
ing else. We will go away together and live in India, 
in Japan, here and there, just where we please. Society 
will disown us. Well, having each other, we will be 
happy to be disowned. That ’s all, my dears.” 

Just before Theodore Griggs turned to go, he said, as 
if the matter was a trifling afterthought : 

“ Ah, my dear Mrs. Raritan, by the way, you received 
a letter from a certain gentleman on the night of Mrs. 
Frankland’s ball ?” 

“ Yes,” she said, a shamed look creeping into her 
sweet eyes as she recalled that night, and the degrada- 
tion she had suffered in her husband’s eyes. 

“ I hope you have kept it. Have you ?” 

Without a word s)ie drew it from her breast. 

‘‘ Ah, you were going to show it to Mr. Raritan 
when you saw him ?” 

“Yes, to clear myself,” she stammered. 

“ Good. Lucky you saved it. Give it to me. He 
will have it, never fear. Now then, a few last words. 
Should Mr. Hastings call here, treat him as if nothing 
had happened. Do not mention the name of our vis- 
itor from London. Do not appear to have a vestige 
of hope. Tell him to come back. Say nothing of your 
proposed journey to Arizona ; and, by the way, do not 
make any more preparations for going until you hear 
from me.” 

“ Oh, impossible ! I want to go to-day. I am burn- 
ing with impatience !” cried Vida. “You are thinking 
of my health, you do not think me in a condition 
for travelling ; but I shall die if I sit here inactive 
logger.” 


the: house: by the: river. 


m 


“You must think of your health, my dear madam. 
I am thinking of something else. Wait until you hear 
from me. Will you ? Do you trust me ?” 

“ Yes, oh, yes. I do not know who you are, but — " 
“Ah, you are kind! You would thank me? No, 
not yet, not yet !” and, with a courtly bow, he hurriedly 
withdrew. 




CHAPTER XXXII. 

An understanding. 

But Clyde Hasting-s did not call at Applethorpe. 
Ever since the news of Sidney’s conviction had reached 
him, the longing to see Vida had been almost uncon- 
querable — to see her, to read in her face, that, while 
she still loved Raritan, she believed him all that he 
had painted him. 

Oh, it was hard to deny himself this pleasure, this 
food to his hopes for the future. But he feared to be 
too abrupt, and that his appearance at such a time 
might so jar upon her she might experience an un- 
reasonable resentment, and her. old dislike and dis- 
trust return. 

But he thought of her. At least a score of letters 
were written to her, only to be destroyed. He could 
say nothing that might not antagonize her. He could 
not pretend to be sorry for Sidney’s fate, and it would 
be madness to rejoice in it, or by even a word express 
devotion to her. All that must come — afterward. 

At times faint qualms of remorse seized him as he 
pictured Sidney in the far Western prison waiting for ^ 
death, but he subdued them quickly. What if Raritan 
had been convicted by false evidence, and that the 
body identified as Allan Love’s was' not his ? The fact 
remained that Sidney Raritan could not, dared not 

[233] 


234 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


tell the tale of that fateful winter night. He had mur- 
dered Allan Love — of that he was convinced. Was he 
to escape — to have the successful life of an innocent 
man, the woman he loved — just because no eye saw the 
deed and no tongue could be roused to speak in con- 
demnation ? 

He satisfied himself by this reasoning, and while ex- 
pectant, nervous, unable to settle to anything, finding 
pleasure and business alike insupportable, he was 
waiting for the* days to pass which would bring the end. 

“Allan Love lies murdered — somewhere,” he would 
mutter. “ It is I who have avenged him, and the re- 
ward will be mine.” 

But across this inactive life came a sudden fear, 
which roused him as if from a dream. He was sitting 
beside the window of his club, on Fifth Avenue, on the 
very day when Aloha entered Applethorpe. He was 
trying to interest himself in a French novel, but it 
drooped listlessly in his hand, and his eyes followed 
the figures on the street without really perceiving 
them. A waiter entered with a telegram, and on the 
moment he was quivering with suspense and curiosity. 
It meant news from Arizona, without a doubt. 

He opened it, and saw written there but one word : 
“ Beware. — M.” 

From Markby — and containing the warning word 
that had been agreed upon in case of danger. Clyde 
Hastings’s face was very pale as he went back to his 
rooms, the telegram crushed in his hand. That after- 
noon he left town. 

During the seven days that followed, Vida hoped 
that each morning would bring her a message from 
Theodore Griggs, telling her that she might prepare 
to go to Sidney. She had great faith in him. His 
quiet, forcible manner had won her ; the fact that to 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


m 


him Aloha’s presence on the scene was due, and that 
he had given her the papers which had convinced her 
of her husband’s loyalty to herself. She would not 
take the step until his command came ; but, oh, how 
the days dragged, and how her blood ran riot with a 
fever of impatience ! Messages she received from 
him, kindly messages, but all counseling her to be 
patient. Patience at such a time ! It was hard to 
obey, as hard as if her hand was thrust into a fire and 
he told her not to draw it out until word came from 
him. 

Theodore Griggs went his way much as usual. He 
was at the house by the river at odd times. He saw 
Felix Love, the companion of his wretched father, the 
lad now only a shadow of himself. Oftentimes, when 
he chanced upon him in a shadowy passage, he felt as 
if he had crossed the path of an uneasy spirit whose 
only question seemed to be ; “ Has he been convicted 
yet ?” 

All knowledge of the case had been kept from him 
at Griggs’s command. 

“ Wait,” he had said to Allan Love, ‘‘ until all is over. 
It would make him desperate if he knew he was keep- 
ing silence when every day and hour brought Raritan’s 
death closer.” 

It was on the eighth day after Aloha’s arrival at Ap- 
plethorpe that Griggs, leaving his hotel, received a 
telegram. The message was long, and evidently needed 
careful mental digestion, for it was read a dozen times 
during his walk from the hotel to the elevated train. 

If it were possible for him to change color, the tele- 
gram might be said to have accomplished that wonder. 
He looked graver than usual, and his lips were set as if 
he had an unpleasant duty to perform. 

He went straight to the house by the river. Mr. Fair- 


236 


THE HOUSE BV THE RIVER. 


leigh was in his study, and he entered it, closing the 
door behind him. 

“ Ah, it *s you, Griggs ?” came from beneath the 
hood, and the tone was querulous, questioning. “ What 
news ? I’m almost beside myself with impatience ! 
How long is this thing going to hang fire ?” 

Griggs took his seat near the door and sat in absolute 
silence. 

After a moment his employer turned toward him 
in surprise, and lifted the hood a little farther from his 
face. 

“ You are silent. Have you bad news ?” he asked, in 
a hurried breath. 

“ Yoti will think it bad news, Allan Love,” said 
Griggs, in his everyday tone. 

His listener seemed stricken dumb, swayed, leaned 
upon the table for support. When he spoke again, his 
voice was like the voice of another man. 

“ What do you mean ? Do — do you know what name 
you have called me ?” 

“ I do. Allan Love !” 

“You are mad ! Or you have been drinking !” 

“ I am perfectly sane, Allan Love. 1 am speaking 
\.o you. I am csilling you by your own name,” and he 
stood up, leaned his hands upon the table and said, in 
a tense, sharp voice, while he brought his clenched 
hand down upon it : “ The game ’s up !” 

For a moment the clock’s ticking was strangely loud 
in the room, and old Remus peered in at the doorway 
unseen. He had heard those last words, and, trembling 
in every limb, he waited for what was to follow. 

“ Will you explain yourself, Mr. Griggs ?” said Allan 
Love, with difficulty. “ Y ou are talking in riddles. 
Speak ! What do you mean ?” 

Griggs stood up straight, his watch open in his hand. 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


237 


“ I have just twenty minutes, and if you will follow 
me carefully we will waste i:o time.” 

The muffled figure before him remained absolutely 
still, but his labored breathing could be heard in the 
quiet room. 

“My words,” said Theodore Griggs, “mean just 
this : I have found out who you are. I know the 
whole story of Raritan’s journey with you over the 
plains, your forced marriage to Aloha Brysdale, your 
cultivation of the suspicion that grew out there of 
Raritan’s having made away with you. To further 
this you kept out of sight, not for a murderous pur- 
pose alone, but for your own safety, because soon after 
that night with Raritan, in some out-of-the-way village 
where no one recognized you or knew you, you had 
fallen a victim to the scourge that is more horrible 
than any curse in life — leprosy. Yes, you had better 
sit down. I could pity you for this dread affliction, 
but you have shown yourself a monster of cruelty. 
Well, you disappeared, and, unconsciously, your plot 
was aided by another enemy of Sidney Raritan. I re- 
fer to Clyde Hastings. I think that when I see the 
memorandum-book which so forcibly implicated Rari- 
tan with the killing of the supposititious Love, I shall 
identify it as one I saw him purloin when, as Etienne 
Oudry, I brushed Mr. Raritan’s clothes at Apple- 
thorpe. So the matter stands. I suspected you from 
the first. I knew you were Allan Love the night you 
called out for your son when you were unconscious. 
I discovered that same night what terrible fate made 
you keep your face shrouded. Had you shown pity at 
the last moment, I should have pitied you, but, good 
Lord ! you are calmly waiting to hear that Sidney 
Raritan has been choked to death for murdering you 
- — you who face me now, a living man I” 


238 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


All Griggs’s reserve had disappeared, his voice rang 
out, his steely eyes were bright. There was burning 
scorn in the way he swept his arm out, as if to place 
an immeasurable distance between the man who lis- 
tened and himself. 

Ah ! So you knew this all along, did you ? And 
you took my money as my paid spy, and now, for higher 
wages, no doubt, you betray me !” said Allan Love, his 
accent an insult. 

Theodore Griggs put his hands in his pockets, and a 
questioning, mocking smile curved his lips. 

“ I wonder what you took me for ? A detective ? 
That I am — but what else ? A spy to hound an inno- 
cent man to his doom and glut your insensate revenge? 
Oh, no ! While I thought you the aggrieved person 
and my duty was to watch a man described to me as a 
scoundrel — very good. I have watched people of the 
latter class often, and have at length delivered them, 
with much satisfaction, into the jaws of the law. But 
what of this case ? Good heavens, man ! I find you 
an impostor, endeavoring to fling an everlasting stain 
upon the name of an honest man. I watch that man, 
as I am commissioned to do, and I find him a gentle- 
man — a gentleman even to his servant, and that is 
hard, indeed, and most unusual. You think I really 
accepted such work ? No, Allan Love ! I turned the 
tables and watched you. I watched that other cold, 
bloodless plotter, Mr. Hastings. There ’s your money, 
every penny of it !” and he flung a small, tight roll of 
bills upon the table. “ Count it, and you will find I 
have not kept a penny. As to your other supposition, 
that I deserted you only for more money, you are 
wrong. I have had no communications with the other 
side in my capacity of detective. But I am not rich, 
and when Sidney Raritan is free, as he will be — mark 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


239 


you that, as he will be — I have no doubt he will pay 
me for the time and effort I have freely given in hife 
behalf. I will take his money. It ’s honest.” 

“ And all this means ?” said Allan Love, hoarsely. 

“ It means just this : You silenced your son, but I 
must speak ! To fully clear Sidney Raritan, I have 
brought Aloha, your wife, from England. Her ex- 
planation of that mysterious night will help to clear 
Raritan, but a telegram from his lawyers, received by 
me half an hour ago, tells me this will not be enough. 
The body found must be proven beyond all doubt to 
be another than Allan Love. This done, the case falls 
to the ground, and every vestige of suspicion removed 
from Raritan.” 

You mean,” gasped Allan Love, ^‘that you will be- 
tray me to them ? You don’t mean that ! Do any- 
thing else you like, but, for Heaven’s sake, spare me ! 
Think of what my fate will be ! I, who never humbled 
myself to a living being, ask you to spare me !” And 
his fierce, shrouded hand closed around Griggs’s 
arm. 

“ Useless ! This is a bad business. I am sorry for 
you, yes, despite all, but you brought it on yourself. 
A man’s life is at stake. Be ready. In an houf three 
men from the West will arrive to identify you, and get 
your affidavit.” 

With a moan that came from a rent, cheated heart, 
Allan Love sank back, and Theodore Griggs, passing 
him hastily, left a scene that had tried him almost be- 
yond his strength. 

He met the men expected at his rooms, and went 
with them to Applethorpe, where Aloha was seen. It 
was a terrible shock for her to learn that her husband 
was alive, but she conquered her own personal disap- 
pointment for the great cause at stake. 


240 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


“ Come ! Your identification will be the strongest 
of all,” said Griggs ; and she obeyed. 

But when they reached the house by the river Allan 
Love’s lips were silent. He was dead ! 

Heart disease ? Perhaps. His heart had been weak. 
Yet, if so, why had old Remus carefully removed and 
broken the glass in which he had brought his master 
a last drink, just after his interview with Theodore 
Griggs ? And what did those words mean which he 
muttered into the ears which heard them not : 

“ Massa, forgive me — oh, forgive me ! ’Twas ’cause 
I loved you I done it ! Yuh proud heart need not 
break by seein’ them lookin’ in that pore face o’ yourn. 
This is rest and peace forever. Old Remus knew, chile, 
that death was bes’ !” 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AS THE CURTAIN FALLS. 

When you read this, Bebe, I shall have gone out of your 
life forever.” 

Felix wrote as far as this. Then he stopped, and 
looked drearily from his window to the busy street, 
filled with the coming and going of life in the winter 
dusk. How happy every one seemed, except him ! It 
was two weeks since his father had died — Christmas 
Eve. The air was .filled with a flurry of snow. He 
heard a choir practicing a Christmas chorus in a church 
near by. 

What a dreary Christmas ! And, worse than all, the 
life which stretched before him would be but a repeti- 
tion of it. He was leaving his native land, and prob- 
ably his next Christmas and many more would be 
spent under torrid suns. He was leaving the girl he 
loved with all the strength of his young, pure man- 
hood. It was good-by His eyes were burning as he 
gazed at his boxes all strapped and addressed for his 
travel on the morrow ; then impulsively seized the pen 
and hurried to finish his farewell. 

I have loved you, Bebe. I do love you. But I can under- 
stand that memories must arise constantly in both our minds and 
make a gulf which we cannot cross. When I think that 

[241] 


242 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


through any one related to me you and yours suffered the keen- 
est agony which life can give — the fear of such a death — I bow 
my head in shame and bitter sorrow. Oh, Bebe, if only some 
angel could wipe away these memories from our minds, and 
looTcing only into our two hearts, say: * Let nothing stand between, 
since these two are not to blame, and know the truth of love !’ 
Ah, useless — useless ! How could you ever look upon my face 
without thinking of the days — ” 

The sound of low voices outside his door made him 
pause and listen. Who could it be ? He would see no 
one. Visitors to-day, when his heart was breaking ? 
No, no ! He covered the unfinished letter with a blot- 
ter, and motioning to his servant — who appeared from 
another room — to say he was not at home, he went in- 
to his bedroom, and flung himself, heart-sick and hope- 
les.s, across the bed, his face buried on his folded arms. 

There was the murmur of voices, a footstep, then 
silence. Whoever it was, was gone. He sprang up, 
and, when he entered the sitting-room, saw Bebe sit- 
ting on one of his strapped trunks, the letter in her 
hand. 

Of course, he was dreaming ! He rubbed his eyes, 
he felt his hands, to see if they were real. She turned 
her head and smiled at him. 

“ Felix ! And you were going away ?” she said, with 
a little, reproachful cry. “You did not come to me! 
You took for granted that we could never be anything 
more to each other, Felix ?” 

Poor Felix felt as if his heart must surely break from 
a maddening mixture of pain and joy. She was so 
lovely, so winsome, as she stood there in the soft, dark 
furs, his letter in her hands, the light of love in her 
blue eyes. 

He seized her hands, his yearning eyes dwelt upon 
her face. 

“ You read the letter, darling — ” 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


243 


“ Yes, and I think you have been so cruel to me, 
Felix ! Why, dear, don’t you know that nothing save 
what you do yourself can ever make a shadow fall be- 
tween us? Your father was wicked and unhappy. He 
hated Sidney — all that is sad. But you, dear — oh, was 
there a moment when you did not suffer for us ? I 
know all from Mr. Griggs — how your father made you 
keep silent, because he gave you the terrible choice of 
betraying him. But you did not know that Sidney was 
convicted at the time ! You wouldn’t have let him die, 
Felix ? The right would have conquered !” 

“ Oh, Beb, just to think of those days turns me al- 
most mad. I would have cleared Sidney, or if I hadn’t 
— if in some way they had prevented me, imprisoned 
me — I should have killed myself.” 

“ It ’s all over, it ’s all over !” she said. “ Sidney 
comes home to-morrow. Now, don’t stand there look- 
ing at me as if you wanted to eat me up yet dared 
not. You look so tired, so pale. Kiss me, dear. And 
then — come back with us to Applethorpe.” 

He folded her in his arms, and in the earnest kiss 
which he laid upon her lips there was the new manhood 
which had come to him through pain. 

“ ‘ With tis ?’ ” he echoed. “ Who came with you ?” 

“ Vida. She is outside. You know she was so weak 
after all this horrible thing was over, the doctor told 
her she dare not go to Sidney : and he, poor fellow, 
was delayed a week by one thing or another. But to- 
morrow, after the long journey, he will be with us.” 

Applethorpe was very cheery and bright on the 
beautiful Christmas morning, and Vida, in a soft, brown 
velvet robe which Sidney loved, went slowly from 
room to room, a look of expectancy on her face, a deep 
joy which filled her eyes with a holy light. Aloha was 
with her. They would not hear of her returning until 


Hi 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


after Christmas ; and, indeed, she was only too glad to 
wait and see Sidney. 

It lacked but an hour to the dinner-time at four o’clock. 
The chief guest of the day had arrived — Theodore 
Griggs — and he was busily engaged in chaffing Felix 
and Bebe as they sat around the fire in the billiard- 
room. Suddenly their merry talk was broken by the 
sound of carriage- wheels, and every face grew pale 
with an emotion that quickened the heart to tears. 

It was Sidney. They watched him from the window 
as he ascended the steps, and though no tongue voiced 
the thought, each marveled and inwardly sorrowed 
for the look of something more than experience which 
had come to the strong, frank face. Sidney Raritan had 
stared into the face of death, and a subtle mark was 
left to tell of it. 

No one went to meet him as they heard him pass the 
billiard-room and ascend the stairs to Vida’s boudoir. 
They knew she was waiting for him there — alone. He 
entered, and the glow of firelight filling the room made 
a rosy circle around her. Ah, it seemed so long to 
wait before his arms were around her, her lips pressed 
to his in a rapture that was pain — such a kiss as one 
would give the dead, suddenly, by some miracle, brought 
back to life. 

Vida clung to her husband, faint from the storm of 
emotion that held her. Oh, his young, worn face, the 
dashes of gray in his thick hair at the temples, telling 
the story of the dark hours he had passed through ! 
But he was with her again ! God had heard her many 
prayers ! He was here alive ! And he loved her as 
ever ! He believed in her again. All doubts were 
settled ! The shadows were gone, and love was su- 
preme. 

“ Wife — my wife !” and Sidney framed her face ten- 


THE HOUSE BY THE BIVER. 


245 


derly. “ I have been down in the deeps, dear one, since 
I saw you ; but the suffering was worth all — all for 
this moment.” 

At the dinner Theodore Griggs was the life of the 
party. He beamed on Sidney, he beamed on Vida 
who sat back with such a hallowed, contented look on 
her sweet, pale face, he looked with fatherly interest 
on Felix and Bebe, and was almost coquettish with 
Aloha. Toasts were drunk — toasts in which all the bit- 
terness of the past was washed away, and then, toward 
the last, Theodore Griggs arose, his glass in his hand : 

“ Two toasts, my good friends. One to an old serv- 
ant, naipied Remus, who knew how to love and how to 
serve, and who, thanks to our kind hostess’s liberality, 
has gone back to the South to die amid the scenes of 
his far-away boyhood in plenty and in peace. The 
other I drink to a very faulty and humble person — you 
shall join me if you will — to Monsieur Etienne Oudry, 
late of Applethorpe.” 

“ Mercy ! Why to him ? That fiinny little French- 
man ?” cried Bebe, while all the other faces repeated 
the surprise on her own. 

“ Because I loved him dearly.” 

You ?” 

“ He was myself ! I was that mincing valet whom 
Miss Bebe detested. And now a word to prove how a 
kind word may bear good fruit. As that humble serv- 
ant I was found sniveling one day, and my master 
asked me why. I told him my brother was ill and far 
away. Ah, Etienne was a despicable little creature, 
but not too mean to touch his master’s kindly heart. 
Friends, as the kindly hand fell on Etienne’s shoulder 
and the words of sympathy left his employer’s lips he 
registered a vow to die in that man’s service if need be 
— and he meant it !” 


246 


THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER. 


Well — well, Griggs, you are a born actor !” was all 
Sidney said, but his eyes were humid as he grasped 
Griggs’s hand. 

We need not follow these happy people much farther. 
Vida’s son is now as high as her knee, and Bebe is the 
prettiest little matron in New York society. Aloha’s 
story was never made public, and she reigns at Wessex 
Court in sumptuous style, where her American guests 
are always joyously welcomed. Sidney Raritan pur- 
sues his way, a happy man, and more keenly alive than 
ever to the suffering about him. If anything had been 
needed to make him more interesting, the history which 
throws a romantic glamour over him has done it. 
People look at the whitened hair and the kind blue 
eyes and think : 

“ He has tasted of all in life. He has known what 
it is to face an appointed hour of death — he has lived, 
indeed !” 

Strangely enough, Vida never saw Clyde Hastings 
after the night of Sidney’s arrest. When he hurried 
from New York on receipt of Markby’s telegram, he 
put many miles between the land of his birth and him- 
self. He is a wanderer, and was last heard of as one 
of a party going to explore the Southern polar lati- 
tudes. 

Theodore Griggs would like to meet him. 

THE END. 


/ 


f 


THE CHILDREN’S CRUSADE. 


t 




/■ 


THE CHILDREN’S CRUSADE. 



CHAPTER I. 


THE BOY CRUSADER. 



NCE upon a time, a boy of eighteen, riding 


through a country village, noticed a crowd ; 


and, in turning aside to see what was the mat- 
ter, changed the whole course of his life. 

He was an ardent, romantic boy, just such as we 
have many to-day, and shall have, I trust, for many a 
year to come. He had done many a foolish thing in 
his haste, but never a mean one. And his heart “ was 
in the right place,” or I should not think it worth 
while to be telling his story, seven hundred years after 
he lived and died. 

Perhaps some of you may shy away from me the mo- 
ment you hear what an old story is coming; but, as Mr. 
Lincoln used to say, “hold your horses.” Good things 
can afford to grow old ; bad ones fall to pieces before 
they are fairly of age. We Americans are liable to think 


[249] 


250 


THE children’s crusade. 


that people who lived before us ought to be forgotten. 
We are so busy, boasting of the marvels of to-day, 
dreaming of greater marvels to be accomplished to- 
morrow, that we dub the events of our fathers’ boyhood 
by the scornful title of “ ancient history,” and, by reason 
of our scorn, tumble into many pitfalls. 

A certain wise Greek — never mind his name now, for 
I don’t wish to frighten you — called history “ philos- 
ophy, teaching by example.” The wisest of English- 
men tell us that “ histories make men wise while the ^ 
most dishonest politician England ever had said that 
he liked “ anything but history; for history must be. 
false.” You can take your choice between Bacon the 
Wise and Walpole the Cynic ; but if you are boys of 
the right sort, from seventeen to seventy, you can go 
hunting for the moral that was buried in this story^ ‘ 
seven hundred years ago. 

Let us go back to our boy. His name was vStephen, 
after his father. The elder Stephen, in consequence of 
owning a large estate in a famous valley, was called 
‘‘ Stephen of the Valleys,” which, in his native tongue 
— he was a man of the southeast of France — became 
Etienne de Vaux. Both Young Stephen and Old Stephen 
were called “nobles not, as many think, because they 
were thought to be better than their neighbors, but be- 
cause they were “ known men ” in the country ; from 
the Latin word nobilis. The founder of the family had 
been a famous soldier, a chosen companion to King 
Clovis, who conquered France from the Romans. 
When the Franks won the victory, they gave to the 
king’s friends the Roman title of “Comites,” which 
means “ companions and this, in time, had been cor- 
rupted to “counts.” 

Young Count Stephen, being rich, healthy and happy, 
had never known what sorrow was in his own case. 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


251 


He lived in the little kingdom of Provence, where the 
wars that desolated Europe rarely came. Provence, 
thanks to a generous soil and to a climate like that of 
our own Florida, was the richest part of France, and 
her nobles and peasants, instead of being soldiers or 
robbers all the year round, had leisure to cultivate the 
graces of life. 

Young Count Stephen was well known throughout 
the country as a sweet singer and poet, whose verses 
^had made him a youth of mark in the ranks of the 
troubadours ; and when he turned his horse toward the 
crowd in the market-place of Vaucluse, he bore a 
lute at his back, and was on his way to join a con- 
gress of minstrels at the castle of his friend, Raymond 
Lenoir. 

Not far behind the boy count, and following him on 
another horse, was a stout, burly young fellow of his 
own age, called Pierre Le Gros, or “ Big Peter,” from 
his great size. Big Peter had a shrewd, kindly face, 
a great deal of common sense, and a devoted affec- 
tion for his young lord, whose foster-brother he was, 
and for whom he would have laid down his life at any 
time. 

As Count Stephen reined in his horse at the out- 
skirts of the crowd, he perceived that it was gathered 
round an old man, whose brown robe, bare feet and 
emaciated look proclaimed him as a mendicant friar. 
He was preaching a sermon of the kind that sent peo- 
ple wild in those days, just as a noted revivalist does 
in our own times. 

As the careless youth neared them, he perceived 
that most of the people in the crowd were pale and 
frightened. Some were in tears ; others, with eyes 
flashing wildly and heaving breasts, stared at the 
speaker, and hung on every word he spoke, as if afraid 


252 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


to lose a syllable ; while all were rapidly working 
themselves into a state of frantic excitement. 

Count Stephen, who had heard, at Lenoir’s castle, 
much sneering at the wild preachers of the “ Crusades,” 
nevertheless stopped to listen, and checked his horse 
right in front of the preacher, who saw him and in- 
stantly drew the attention of the crowd to him, on ac- 
count of his conspicuous appearance. 

Raising his skinny arms in the air and shaking his 
white beard from side to side, he called out to the 
careless boy, in piercing tones of warning : 

“ Ho, you that ride on horses, you that sing gay songs 
to the music of the lute, know ye that the day of wrath 
is coming, yea, is now at hand ! Is this a time for 
music and dancing, when the Cross of Christ is tram- 
pled in the dust ? Sing while the Turk defiles the 
sepulcher ! Dance while he spits upon the cross where- 
on your Saviour died that ye might live ! Ay, ay, sing 
on, dance on ! But remember, the • day of doom is 
coming !" 

His voice rose to almost a shriek as he paused for 
breath, staring straight at the now awe-stricken 
Stephen, who began to tremble, he hardly knew why, 
while the eyes of every person in the crowd were con- 
centrated on him, with a fixed gaze that increased his 
agitation and excitement. Then the old monk went 
on in a lower tone, redolent of intense sorrow : 

“ But what know ye of the agonies that have made 
me an old man before my time ! Ye are safe at home 
where the golden fruit hangs from the green bough, 
where the purple grapes cluster on the trellis, where 
the sound of the lute lulls to sleep the conscience that 
naught but the voice of God can waken. But I — I have 
seen and heard it all. I have been in the midst of the 
slaughter. I have listened to the dying sigh of the 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


253 


last Crusader ; have seen the fierce Turk trampling 
beneath his charger’s hoofs the body of knight and 
noble. But the sins of those who call themselves 
Christians are so great that they are not permitted to 
see the Holy Sepulcher. The God of Battles demands 
for his service the pure in heart, the young not yet 
dead in sin. O thou, young man — thou that livest 
softly — thou from whose bright young eyes the glow 
of our lost paradise hath not yet faded — ere it be too 
late, heed the words of Him who died to save thee ; 
take up thy cross and follow !” 

As he said this, still fixing the young count with his 
wildly gleaming e3^e, he beckoned to Stephen with his 
lean forefinger ; and the boy, hardly knowing what he 
did in his excitement and that of the crowd which sur- 
rounded him, urged his horse through the lane that 
seemed to be opened to him by common consent and 
advanced close to where the monk stood, on a high 
block of stone in the market-place of Vaucluse. 

Stephen had heard before of Hildebrand of Tours, 
the fit successor of the great Peter, who had preached 
the First Crusade a century before. Now he was face 
to face with him, and the eyes of all the assembly were 
fixed on the boy count, as the hermit spread his hands 
over Stephen’s head, ciying aloud in a tone of exulta- 
tion : 

“ At last the Lord hath answered my prayer ! Be- 
hold the leader of the Children’s Crusade !” 

The boy beneath him started violently, while a thrill 
of enthusiasm ran through the crowd, expressed in 
murmurs of delight at the prospect of a new excite- 
ment. The old monk cast his eyes round on the surg- 
ing mass beneath him, and his lean figure seemed to 
grow in stature as he cried aloud : 

“ Stephen de Vaux, I adjure thee in the name of the 


254 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


Holy Cross that thou answer me truly : W/io died to 
save thee ?” 

Stephen had answered that question many a time be- 
fore in the catechism, without thinking- of the mean- 
ing of the words he used ; but now, thrust at him as 
they were by the old monk in a shriek of wild inquiry, 
the boy trembled violently and answered in a low 
tone, gazing up to heaven, having instinctively doffed 
his cap in reverence at the question : 

Lord and Saviour^ Jesus Christ !" 

As he finished, his eyes filled with tears and he 
looked up at the sky like one in a dream. 

Hildebrand clapped his hands' together, his haggard 
face lighting up with a strange fire, as he cried aloud : 

“ O young man, thou hast said it ! He, the ruler of 
the worlds, died the death of a thief on the cross to 
save thee from the pains of hell ! And now the heathen 
defile His sanctuary, and Christian men stay at home 
to revel in their halls, while the false prophet sits in 
triumph and cries : ‘ Where is now their God ?’ ” 

A low groan burst from the excitable people in the 
crowd round Stephen, a groan of a kind similar to 
those that we often hear in our day under the preach- 
ing of some great revivalist. 

Men beat their breasts and wept, while the enthu- 
siastic boy, who found himself the center of all eyes, 
trembled more violently than before, as he asked, in a 
husky whisper : 

“ What wouldst thou have me do, holy father ?” 

The old monk caught at the question with the eager 
readiness of a born orator and echoed it aloud : 

“ What shouldst thou do ? O thou young man, when 
the old falter let the young take up the sword for the 
cross ! Behold the sign of the Holy War ! Take it on thy 
breast and swear to follow it till the last Turk is swept 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


^55 


from Palestine and the crescent of Mahound is drowned 
in the sea !” 

As he spoke he snatched from his breast, within the 
folds of his robe, a simple cross of white linen and 
laid it on the youth, as if about to fasten it there, when 
the crowd burst into a wild shout : 

Dieu le veult ! Dieu le veult ! (God wills it ! 
God wills it !)” 

They were as wild as the “ stricken sinners” in a 
revival of Whitefield’s time or the enthusiasts of a camp- 
meeting in the woods of Virginia ; while the boy 
count, who had been so careless a few minutes before, 
was so overcome by the excitement that he hardly 
knew what he was doing. 

With his eyes still raised to heaven, as if he saw some 
vision in the blue sky, he said, slowly and dreamily : 

“ If thou deemest me worthy of the cross, holy 
father, I will take it and fight against the infidel T' 

The words were hardly out of his mouth when his 
foster-brother, who had thrust his way toward him by 
this time, but not without difficulty, called out, in anx- 
ious tones ; 

“ My lord ! my lord ! Remember your lady mother ! 
Remember — ” 

But before he could finish there came an angry mur- 
mur from the people, and the old monk, with his fierce 
eyes blazing, shrieked out : 

“ ‘ He that will not leave father and mother for my 
sake hath no part in me ! Get thee behind me, 
Satan!’” 

But Big Peter, without heeding the cry of the ex- 
cited old man, struggled on to the side of his young 
master and laid his hand on Stephen’s arm, saying 
hurriedly : 

“ My lord, my lord, consider what you do 1 There 


256 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


is none to take your place when you are gone, and my' 
lady will die of grief. Think of the castle and the 
broad lands that need a master when the count is 
gone. Think of — ” 

But he was not allowed to finish what he had to 
say, for the old monk, raising his thin arms in the air, 
cried fiercely : 

Get thee behind me, Satan ! What are broad 
lands to the fires of hell ? Get thee behind me, Satan ; 
for thou savorest of this world ! Let him that hin- 
dereth the march of the cross look to himself ! What, 
ho ! Count Stephen de Vaux, wilt thou bear the cross 
for thy Master and win thee a place in heaven ?” 

Big Peter would have answered and argued, but at 
the vrords of the old monk a hundred hands were 
stretched out to clutch him, and a confusion of cries 
arose. He was dragged half off his horse, and was 
forced back out of the hearing of his master, while the 
old monk, in the same frenzied strain as before, con- 
tinued his address, accompanied by the cries and sobs 
of his hearers, till young Count Stephen, in the 
presence of them all, took the solemn oath of the Cru- 
sader. 

Big Peter saw the ceremony, though he could not 
hear the words, as he hovered on the outskirts of the 
crowd ; but he saw the cross fastened on the shoulder 
of his beloved young lord, and knew that the deed 
was irrevocable. The people were wild with excite- 
ment, and a number of other boys, with even some 
girls — for in the great Children’s Crusade none was 
spared — fastened the white cross on their shoulders 
and formed a procession, headed by the old monk, who 
told them that he would lead them to the plains of 
Avignon, where the camp of the children had been 
pitched. Then he told Stephen to “ go to his father’s 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


257 


castle, and prepare for his journey and to join the cru- 
sade on the plains of Avignon, within three days, with 
as many as he could persuade to follow him.” 

Then, and not till then. Big Peter was allowed to 
rejoin his master, whom he found pale and all in a 
tremor, as if he had passed through some terrible ex- 
citement, from which he had not yet recovered. 

Slowly and mechanically he rode away toward Castle 
Vaux, like a boy in a dream, till he was roused from 
his reverie by the dry tones of Big Peter, who said : 

“ Fine work your worship hath made to-day. What 
will your lady mother think of it ?” 

Big Peter, being foster-brother to his young lord, 
was accustomed to much familiarity, and was amazed 
when Count Stephen turned on him with an angry face, 
saying sharply : 

“ Silence, sacrilegious wretch ! Is not the sepulcher 
of the Lord better tlian fifty mothers ? Now, by my 
faith, Peter, this day thou hast shamed me, and I hate 
thee !” 

The unaccustomed tone of harshness, the words, 
bitter as gall, all seemed to surprise and grieve the 
faithful foster-brother so much that he answered never 
a, word, but hung his head, flushing scarlet; till 
Stephen, seeing the effect of his words on one who 
loved him so deeply, continued in a more placable, 
tone : 

“ If thou hadst loved me really, Peter, thou wouldst 
have taken the cross with me to-day.” 

Peter shook his head, with a strange expression of 
face, saying : 

If your worship goes to Palestine, I go too ; but I 
don’t pretend that I go for the good of my soul ! Kill- 
ing men is not the way to go to heaven, or we should 
all be angels.” 


258 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


The young count flushed deeply at the words, as if 
they stung him strangely, shook his bridle with an 
angry twitch, and galloped on, till the towers of Castle 
Vaux rose before him above the trees. 

Then he halted abruptly, saying, rather awkwardly : 

‘‘Peter, yonder comes my sister, Blanche, from 
hawking. I dare not trust myself to tell her. She will 
weep, and I have gone too far to retreat. I must go to 
Palestine, now.” 

They heard the sound of gay voices and horses’ feet 
coming toward them, and through the trees shone the 
bright garments of ladies and cavaliers. At the head 
of the train rode a girl of fifteen, and, as Stephen saw 
her, his face grew paler, for he dreaded telling her the 
news that he had taken the cross. But it had to be 
^one. 




CHAPTER II. 

THE QUEEN OF THE CRUSADE. 

Count Stephen had no need to tell the story of his 
vow, for the evMence thereof shone on his breast as 
he faced the coming train. The sight of the white 
cross hushed the gay laughter of the young people, 
who were riding toward him, as if by magic ; and 
every face became grave. They knew too well what 
that cross meant. The wearer had taken a vow which 
separated him from his fellows, as much as if had be- 
come a monk or a hermit ; and, once taken, there was 
no means of discarding it, save at the price of disgrace 
on earth, and, as most firmly believed, of eternal pun- 
ishment after death. 

We, in our days in free America, have little idea 
what the Crusades really were. In the time when 
Count Stephen lived, they demanded their thousands 
of victims with unfailing regularity, and spared none. 
That our readers, old and young, may understand 
this better, a few facts may be mentioned here, to save 
them from the trouble of hunting them up for them- 
selves. 

The Crusades were a series of wars, carried on by 
Christian men, who wore crosses on their shoulders, as 
a sign that they would be true to the cross. The first 
Crusade ended in the capture of Jerusalem from the 

[259] 


260 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


Turks, a. hundred and twelve years before the boy 
count heard Hildebrand preaching at Vaucluse. After 
the capture of the Holy City, a Christian kingdom was 
set up in Palestine, the mark of which is still to be 
seen in the ruins of many an old castle, and in the 
Christian churches at Jerusalem itself. Fifty years 
after the capture of Jerusalem, the Latin kingdom was 
overthrown by the great Sultan Saladin, and a second 
and third crusade failed to take it back. From that 
time forth, crusade after crusade was set up or preached, 
all to end in miserable failure. The sixth was in prog- 
ress at the time of Stephen’s vow, and had languished 
along for eight years, in parties of armed pilgrims, who 
sought their way to Palestine as they could, and gen- 
erally perished on the way. 

Then it was, in the year 1212, that the monk Hilde- 
brand, with the frantic idea of enlisting the aid of 
heaven to his enterprise, began to preach the Chil- 
dren’s Crusade under the hope that children alone, as 
being free from sin, might be judged worthy of seeing 
the Sepulcher of Christ. 

Such was the effect of his eloquence that thousands 
of children had been gathered together ; and at the 
moment when the frantic hermit proclaimed Stephen 
the leader of the new Crusade, fifty thousand children, 
of all ages, first gathered together at Vendome, in the 
center of France, were slowly marching toward Mar- 
seilles, supported by the offerings of the pious as they 
went ; singing hymns, carrying white banners and 
sustained by that remarkable enthusiasm which has 
been a wonder to the world ever since. 

Stephen had heard of them, and had wondered, with 
the rest of his friends, what would become of them. 
He had heard jeers and gibes, at the folly which 
thought to conquer the Turks with an army of chil- 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


261 


dren, and the last thing he had had in his mind, that 
morning, had been that he should be found among them. 

Yet here he was, consecrated before all the people as 
the leader of the Children’s Crusade, and before him 
was his sister, the being he loved better than any qne 
else, save his mother, looking at the white cross on his 
breast as if the sight had frightened her. 

He could not avoid the meeting, nor did he wish to do 
so, in the state of exaltation to which he had been 
raised by the preaching of the old hermit. 

“ It is true, my sister,” he said, without waiting to 
be questioned, as Blanche drew rein in front of him, 
and stared at the symbol on his breast, with dilated eyes. 
“ It is true. I have taken the cross, and Hildebrand 
has appointed me the leader of the Children’s Crusade 
to drive the infidel from the sepulcher.” 

Blanche gazed at hirn silently, and her young friends 
with her gazed in the same sort of stupefaction. The 
sister of Stephen was a slight, graceful girl, hardly be- 
yond childhood, with large dark eyes, a delicate rose- 
white complexion, and a disposition noted for gentle- 
ness and kindness to all sufferers. That disposition 
shone out now, as, instead of bursting into reproaches, 
as Stephen had expected, the girl, in a low voice, 
asked him : 

And have you asked our lady mother whether she 
approved ofif?" 

It was rather a singular thing that this question, 
like that of Big Peter a little before, seemed to irritate 
the boy count, for he drew himself up proudly, and re- 
plied, with one of Hildebrand’s texts : 

“ ‘ He that will not leave father and mother to follow 
the Lord hath no part in Him.’ I have taken the cross 
on my shoulder and in my heart, and henceforth I be- 
long to the crusade, with my orders from Heaven itself.” 


262 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


There was a low murmur among the 57-oung people 
around Blanche. Stephen knew them all, for they 
were the children of his neighbors and relatives, about 
his own age or younger. They had been out on a 
hawking-party by the banks of the blue Rhone, as their 
dress and the hooded hawks on wrists of boys and girls 
showed. Right before them rose the castle of Vaux, 
and round them spread the broad meadows owned by 
the old count. Riches and luxury, comfort and pleas- 
ure had been the lot of all there till that day ; and 
now, at the sight of the white cross, all this seemed to be 
forgotten, and a general gloom spread over everything. 

No one answered the speech of the boy count ; and 
he, irritated by the disapproval he read on every face, 
launched out at once into a fiery speech, modeled 
on what he had heard from the old hermit a short time 
before, calling on all his young friends to join him in 
fighting for the cross. Like Hildebrand, he painted the 
terrors of hell and the delights of heaven, which were to 
be the portion of every one who died for the cro.ss. 
Transported by his new-born enthusiasm, he forgot 
himself entirely, and poured forth a burst of eloquence 
that astonished his hearers, already disposed to be- 
lieve him a hero, as having done something they dared 
not do. All the while he was exhorting them they 
gathered closer round him, and, as he paused for 
breath, a black-eyed girl, with a dark, rich face and 
crimson cheeks, cried out, enthusiastically : 

“ God wills it ! I, too, will join the crusade and fight 
for the cross ! God will take care of us !” 

Stephen turned on her with flashing eyes, crying : 

“ Isabel Durance, Heaven is with thee ! Thou shalt 
be called the Queen of the Crusade ! Who follows the 
cross ?” 

“ I !” and “ I !” and “ I !” cried several eager voices ; 


THE children's crusade. 


263 


and within a few minutes from the time he met his 
sister with her friends, he had secured eager recruits 
from every noble family in that part of the country, 
and was leading them off in a tempest of enthusiasm 
away from the castle he dared not enter, the romantic 
boys and girls falling in with the idea of the Children’s 
Crusade with as little thought of the future as if it had 
been a new game they were playing, which, in fact, it 
was, to their innocence and ignorance. 

Away they went at full gallop, taking the way to- 
ward the plains that lay by the river Durance, where 
it was said that the great camp of the Children’s Crusade 
had been spread ; to which circumstance the village of 
Vaucluse owed the fiery sermon it had heard that day. 

They had not far to go, when they topped a little 
knoll, and beheld, far away before them, a grassy plain 
dotted with white tents,, round which the smoke of the 
watch-fires, just as in a real camp, rose to heaven. 

The sight seemed to set the young people with 
Stephen wild with delight, as they raced their horses 
down toward the camp, headed by the enthusiastic 
young leader, his long curls flying in the wind, his 
velvet cap blown from his head, the white cross shin- 
ing on his shoulder, as he spurred his slight-built jen- 
net far in advance of all. 

But in the wild race there were two people who took 
no part. Big Peter and the sister of the enthusiastic 
Stephen, both appearing as if some great misfortune 
had overtaken them, sat looking at each other as the 
children tore away, and Blanche was the first to break 
the silence by saying : 

“ Oh, Peter, what will become of them, what will 
my another say ?'* 

Big Peter twitched his face, as if he hated to answer, 
but when Blanche repeated the question, he said, slowly: 


264 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


“ So please my lady Blanche, there is but one thing 
to do, and that is to go and tell my lord and my lady. 
Perchance we may be able to stay this folly in the 
Childe Stephen.” 

“ Childe ” was the usual title of a youth till he be- 
came a knight, in those days, and Blanche understood 
Peter to refer to her brother. 

For the first time since she had seen Stephen with 
the cross on his shoulder, she began to droop, as if 
about to weep, and said, in a dreary tone of voice : 

“ Oh, Peter ! Peter ! It will kill my mother ! To 
lose her only son by this cruel crusade that sweeps 
high and low ! How shall I tell her ? I dare not. You 
must do it.” 

Big Peter gave his broad shoulders an almost imper- 
ceptible shrug, as he answered : 

“ And if my lady Blanche dare not speak to her own 
mother, how shall I, who am but a poor peasant, ap- 
proach the countess with such news ?” 

Blanche shivered, and her soft dark eyes looked 
very piteous, as she said to the big peasant boy : 

“ But I love her so that I cannot give her pain. 
Oh, if it were but pain to myself, I would go in an in- 
stant ! Oh, Peter, will you tell her, or must I do it ?” 

The big fellow closed his lips as if he were shutting 
a trap, and did not answer for some seconds, during 
which the girl watched him anxiousl}^ At last he 
said, slowly : 

“ I will do it, good my lady, for your sake and that 
of the Childe Stephen. But if he goes, I go with himy 

Blanche nodded her little head, as she said : 

“ And so do I, Peter. I take no cross, but my brother 
shall not go into danger unless I am nigh him to pray 
for him and guard him as well as a weak girl can 
do.” 



CHAPTER III. 

t 

MY LADY AND MY LORD. 

Blanche and the peasant-born youth rode slowly 
toward the castle, where Peter helped the young lady 
from her horse, and then, with the demeanor of a man 
who was going to an execution, followed her to the hall, 
at the upper end of which, on a raised platform called 
a “ dais,” sat the Countess de Vaux, surrounded by her 
ladies, engaged in the perpetual embroidery which was 
the occupation of ladies in those days. 

The countess looked up at her daughter, as she came 
toward her, with a bright smile, saying : 

“Well, darling, and why home so soon from the 
fields ? Did you. find no birds by the river ?” 

“ No, my lady — that is, we — we found the sport bad,” 
was the almost inaudible reply of Blanche ; at which 
the lady would have made some remark, when her at- 
tention was attracted by the spectacle of Big Peter, who 
had followed the girl to the edge of the dais, and stood 
there, fingering his cap in his hands, the picture of em- 
barrassment and awkwardness. 

“ What wouldst thou, Peter ?” asked the lady of the 
castle, thinking he had some request to make. 

“So please my lady,” said Big Peter, slowlv, “ the 

r265l 


266 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


Childe Stephen and myself we were riding to the 
Chateau Lenoir, when we saw many people in the mar- 
ket-place of Vaucluse ; and the Childe turned to 
see whence was the crowd, when we found there the 
monk Hildebrand, preaching the Children’s Crusade, as 
they call it, and — ” 

Here he paused, unable to continue at the sight of 
the face of his beloved mistress, who turned deadly 
pale and seemed to be gasping for breath. She, too, 
had heard of the Children’s Crusade, and seemed to 
anticipate what was coming, for she faltered brokenly : 

“ And he — What hath happened, Peter ? Torture 
me not with doubts, but tell me at once. Did he listen 
to the preacher?” 

“He did, my lady,” was the low reply ; “and the 
preacher so worked on my young lord that he took the 
cross, and has gone to the camp of the children near 
Avignon.” 

The poor lady started to her feet with a faint shriek 
at the news, and stood for a moment like one stunned, 
unable to comprehend the fullness of the disaster. 
Stephen was her only son, the heir of the castle, and if 
he were killed the inheritance of the family would go 
to a cousin whose land adjoined hers, and who was, 
perhaps, the only person in Provence that the gentle 
countess feared and disliked. The ladies on the dais had 
risen and were crowding round her, thinking she was 
about to faint, when she caught sight of her daughter, 
and, starting violently, cried out : 

“ Oh, Blanche, Blanche, and you let him do it ! Why 
could you not stop him ? Oh, my son, my son !” 

Blanche answered no word to the undeserved reproof; 
but honest Peter interposed at once, in his bluff manner, 
saying ; 

“ My lady Blanche knew nothing of it till we met her 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


267 


at the castle, and then it was too late. The Childe 
Stephen had taken the cross. But surely my lord the 
count can forbid his going. It is a mad freak to send 
tender children to fight Turks, and my lord can stop it 
if he hath a mind to.” 

His words seemed to give great comfort to the dis- 
tressed lady as she heard him, and she said, with a 
faint hope in her voice : 

“ He can ! He must ! Oh, I will go to Rome my- 
self, and weary the Holy Father with prayers to give 
my boy a dispensation from this wild, this wicked vow. 
It is impossible that he can suffer it. Come, ladies, let 
us go at once to the count.” 

And without waiting she hurried off through the 
long stone corridors of the castle to find the 
count, who was at the time in the armory inspecting 
the weapons, with a grizzled old soldier, who was his 
manager, and whose title, in those days, was “ Senes- 
chal of the Castle.” 

The seneschal’s name was Hugh Barbot, and he was 
showing the count a huge battle-ax as the ladies in- 
vaded the armory, where they were not wont to be 
seen, while the countess broke out into a hurried and 
agitated story of the way in which they were like to 
lose the heir of the castle by the crusade if something 
were not done at once to stop it. 

The count was a stalwart man of middle height, 
with broad shoulders and legs slightly bowed at the 
knees from the habit of constant riding. He had been 
a famous knight in his prime, with a great reputation 
for strength, and had received so many wounds in his 
young days that he moved stiffly now. His temper 
was hasty and fierce, and as soon as he heard the story 
of the rash vow into which his son had entered he be- 
gan to use very strong language, and swore that he 


268 


THE CHILDREN S CRUSADE. 


would go after the boy and bring him back by the hair 
of the head, if there were no other way. 

“ We have shed enough blood in these silly cru- 
sades,” he said, with great anger ; “ and it is but a 
pretense for the monks to get hold of the estates of 
those who go. We have fighting enough at home to 
do to keep the robbers from the roads ; and here is the 
boy who should be ready to take up my sword, when I 
am too old to fight, going off on a wild-goose chase 
after Turks who never harmed him. Get me my horse, 
and tell the men to saddle-up, and we will show this 
Hildebrand that he cannot rob us of our children, 
though there are fools in France that let him do it else- 
where.” 

The old knight showed so much anger and determi- 
nation that the countess felt wonderfully encouraged, 
and helped him all he could as he hurried his prepara- 
tions to get ready a troop of horse to follow the truant 
boy and bring him back to the castle. 

Within an hour from the time that Big Peter had 
brought in the news of Stephen’s flight to aid the 
Children’s Crusade, Count Stephen de Vaux the elder, 
mounted on his charger, and covered with armor from 
head to foot, was riding off toward Avignon, deter- 
mined to bring back his boy, or know the reason why 
he could not get him. 

And with him rode the countess and Blanche. 
Would they be able to persuade the boy to come back ? 



A 


4 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE CAMP OF THE CHILDREN. 

Count Stephen the Elder was not fated to reach his 
son as soon as he had anticipated when he rode out of 
the castle gates, followed by his vassals, intent on 
bringing back the boy. The distance from Vaucluse 
to the plains of Avignon, where the children had been 
encamped, was a twenty-four hours' journey, for light 
horses ; while the train of the count, composed of men 
in heavy armor, who had to carry all the food their 
horses would need on the saddles of the animals, could 
not move fast enough to catch the young crusaders. 

The warriors toiled on, hearing frequent reports of the 
progress of the Children’s Crusade, which had attracted 
the interest and help of the whole country round. Every 
one they met had done something to help it on, accord- 
ing to his own account ; for the young crusaders, with 
a simple reliance on the promises of Hildebrand, only 
possible in that age, had departed on their journey, 
gathering recruits at every castle and village, taking 
no heed what they should eat or drink, but relying 
solely on charity. 

It is, indeed, one of the strangest things in history, 
hardly to be believed, did we not know it to be true, 



270 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


that the children in that wonderful crusade did not all 
starve to death before they had gone across the breadth 
of France. 

Their numbers fluctuated as they went, the feebler 
ones dropping out on the way, some of them never to 
see their homes again ; others, more fortunate, being 
reclaimed by their parents. But still the march pro- 
ceeded ; and, day by day, the children neared the end 
of the journey they had set themselves, at Marseilles, 
where they confidently expected that they should find 
ships to take them to the Holy Land, in some way. 

The boy count, Stephen, with his little train of 
friends, had reached the camp on the morning of the 
day after he galloped away from his father’s castle, the 
horses of his little party completely exhausted, the riders 
tired out, hungry and ready to drop, but as full of 
ardor for the crusade as ever. They had been wel- 
comed by a boy called Nicholas, supposed to be in 
command of the crusade, who received them in a lordly 
manner, as if he had been the king of the country. 

Nicholas was a very different boy from Stephen ; 
stout and strong, with a great idea of his own impor- 
tance and a habit of enforcing obedience to his orders 
by blows, if any one disputed them. He had led the 
children from Vendome, and assumed the title of 
“ Captain of the Crusade,” which to Stephen, who im- 
agined himself appointed to that office, caused great 
disappointment, till the arrival of Hildebrand in the 
camp, when the old monk, in a public sermon, deposed 
Nicholas from the office of leader, on the score of his 
violent temper, and made the boy count “ Captain of 
the Crusade ” in his turn. 

The real reason for the change Hildebrand said 
nothing about, but it was none the weaker. Count 
Stephen, coming of an old family, was one well calcu- 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


271 


lated to win the respect and admiration of the children 
who had come on the crusade, while Nicholas, who was 
ignorant of reading and writing and a peasant by birth, 
had only his talents to win him the ascendency. 

In those days, talent, without descent from a noble 
family, was useless in the world, save in the church, 
where alone peasants could rise to the highest offices. 

Therefore, when Hildebrand proclaimed Stephen as 
the captain of the crusade, there was no murmuring 
voice among the children, and even Nicholas, though 
he felt his deposition keenly, had to hide his chagrin ; 
for, in the camp of the cross, the vow made all brothers, 
and forbade quarrels. But what neither that vow nor 
any that has been invented since could prevent, was 
the existence of envy and jealousy, which burned as 
fiercely in the breasts of the children of that memor- 
able crusade as in those of their elders who had fought 
one another in sight of Jerusalem, with the same hatred 
they showed the Turks. 

Stephen de Vaux could not help seeing that Nicho- 
las, who had been the head of the army of children 
before he came, hated him, and had hard work to re- 
strain his feelings ; but the boy count, with the enthu- 
siastic notions he had imbibed from Hildebrand, in 
whom he believed firmly, strove to hope for the best, 
and made Nicholas his second in command, in order 
to appease him and make him satisfied with his posi- 
tion. 

But the peasant boy, with keen jealousy born of a 
sense of his inferior advantages to those of the young 
noble, while he felt himself Stephen’s equal in every- 
thing but birth and fortune, kept a sullen face, and 
encouraged murmuring among the boys who had fol- 
lowed him from Vendome, the majority of whom were 
of the same class as himself. 


272 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


Thus it came to pass, as they journeyed on toward 
Marseilles, that there was a division among the chil- 
dren, who had been united in enthusiasm and hope up 
to the day when Stephen joined them ; and they had 
divided into two bodies by the time they had reached 
the sight of the blue Mediterranean ; one headed by 
Stephen, the other by Nicholas ; the latter of the two 
travelling several miles behind the other, and already 
talking of taking a different route. 

And it was with this body that Count Stephen de 
Vaux, as he rode with his soldiers behind him, came 
up five days after he left his castle, and, addressing the 
leader, demanded : 

“Where is the boy they call Stephen de Vaux, the 
Captain of the Crusade ? I am his father.” 

He addressed the question to Nicholas, who was 
marching ahead of a great crowd of children who 
carried banners, like the Sunday-school processions of 
our own days. The peasant boy, with a haughty toss 
of his head, replied : ^ 

“ I am the captain of this Crusade, and I know noth- . 
ing of Stephen. They say he is somewhere in the 
army ; but this I know, that he can never reach the 
Holy Land. He is but a singer of songs, and we are 
soldiers who can fight.” ^ 

The old count looked at the tumultuous mob of boys , 
of all ages who followed the young leader, and a smile 
of some amusement crossed his lip, as he observed : . 

“Ye are all mad together. What can boys like yott' 
do ? One Turk with his scimiter and bow would scattej 
you like chaff.” 

Nicholas tossed his head still more disdainfully, ashq 
retorted, with a look of contempt at the old count : ^ 

“You know nothing about it. The hermit Hilde^. 
brand has promised us that the Lord will work a mira- 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


273 


cle for US. The sea will divide and we shall march to 
Palestine on dry ground. The angels will fight for us 
against the foe, and lightnings will strike them. Leave 
us and begone to thy castle. As for thy boy Stephen, 
if thou wilt take him with thee, it will be all the better 
for this Crusade. We of Orleans have resolved to 
separate from him and march through Italy if he is to 
be our leader.” 

Old Count Stephen saw that the boy was fully per- 
suaded of the truth of his mission and boastings ; but 
the dislike he showed to young Stephen struck the old 
man as a circumstance in his favor, as he thought of 
bringing back his son. Therefore he said, quietly : 

I think thou art right, friend. My son is not fit to 
go to the war, while thou seemest a stout lad. Tell me 
where 1 shall find him, and I will give thee this piece 
o’ gold.” 

He saw that Nicholas was a peasant, and hoped that 
the sight of gold would render him eager to serve him. 
But he had not calculated on the influence of the Cru- 
sade. Nicholas showed no enthusiasm for gold, but 
simply said : 

“ Give it to the almoner behind me ; the boy with 
the bag. We take nothing for ourselves. The Lord 
taketh care of us. As for thy son, I tell thee he is 
somewhere before us with the other body of the Cru- 
sade, and I know not where. Ride on and find him, 
and leave us to our hymns.” 

Without noticing the old knight any further, he 
made a signal to the children behind him, which they 
s<-;emed to understand, for they at once struck up one 
of the grand old Latin hymns common in the Middle 
Ages, and from which some of our own most popular 
ones have come down by translation. 

strains of Creator SpiritusC now 


274 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


known as “ Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly dove,” were 
the favorite of the child crusaders ; and in spite of his 
anxiety and anger at the loss of his son, the old war- 
rior could not help being affected and moved by the 
great burst of childish voices as they swelled out in 
the anthem with as much cheerfulness as if they were 
going to a festival, instead of marching, as he knew 
they must be, to their deaths, or to a slavery more cruel 
than death. 

Without trying to question Nicholas any further, the 
old count spurred his horse and rode on along the 
great mass of children, seeing, the farther he got, that 
there was something very strange in the whole 
spectacle. 

Thousands on thousands of children of all ages, from 
the white-headed youngster of eight or ten to the boy 
of sixteen, who was tall and strong for his age, strayed 
along, singing the hymns to cheer them, and seeming 
to catch strength and spirit therefrom to endure fa- 
tigues that would have moved older people to despair. 

They were dusty and travel-worn ; many haggard 
and thin ; but still they marched cheerfully on, and 
from all the country round the peasants were throng- 
ing to look at the spectacle and bring them food in 
baskets. 

Hundreds of the simple folk were to be seen trudg- 
ing contentedly by the column, carrying their baskets 
and waiting till the children should halt to feed them. 
The old count noticed that the friends of the crusade 
were all peasants, and that if a party on horseback, 
composed of rich people, passed by, they turned away 
from the spectacle as if it were a disagreeable one and 
galloped away with many a sneer and laugh. 

Without knowing how it came about, he found him- 
self, as he rode along, more and more impressed with 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


275 


the spirit of the children, and wishing them well ; 
though his determination to get back his son was as 
strong as ever. As he began to near the head of the 
column in which Nicholas was marching, he saw, some 
little distance ahead, the rear of a second column. 
Realizing that Stephen must be with it, he urged his 
horse on and came up with the leading body of chil- 
dren. 

He had no sooner done so than he was impressed 
with the fact that they marched in much better order 
and seemed to be better provided than the wandering 
rabble that stuck to Nicholas. The children under 
Stephen’s orders seemed to be of all classes, but they 
were older and stronger, and there were no little boys 
and little girls among them, while many had horses 
and seemed to be officers, who kept the rest in the 
ranks. 

The old warrior turned to his wife, who was with 
him, and said in a tone that he could not help being 
proud : 

“Blood will tell, my lady. Our boy knows some- 
thing of war already, young as he is. See, some of his 
children are armed, after a fashion, and they are divided 
into companies under banners. If they were but ten 
years older, who knows what they might do ?” 

But the countess only shuddered as she replied : 

“ Oh, my lord, my lord, what will become of them ? 
Let us hasten and make the poor, deluded boy come 
back. To think that all these tender beings should be 
going to their death and none to stay them ! It is a 
monstrous thing ! Let us hasten onward.” 

They rode past the column, seeing that the country 
people were gathering from all round thicker than be- 
fore, till they caught sight of a white banner far in 
advance, and almost at the same moment heard the 


276 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


long-, sweet note of a bugle sounding a signal which 
brought the children to a halt at once. 

The moment they halted, the peasants, who had fol- 
lowed them, came up with their baskets, and the 
children, with an eagerness that showed how hungry 
and tired they really were, began to struggle for the 
food which was brought to them and carry it off to any 
place they could find where they could sit on the grass, 
rest and eat. 

The old count, glad of the halt, rode on, and soon 
saw, beside the white banner, which had been set up 
at the head of the column, the well-known form of his 
son, sitting on his pony and surveying the scene with 
the air of a general who knows his business. 

The young count did not offer to stir when he saw 
the glittering train of men-at-arms coming up, though 
he must have suspected the cause. Beside him stood 
the emaciated form of the hermit Hildebrand, and 
round him were grouped the friends whom he had per- 
suaded to follow him. Conspicuous among these was 
Isabel Durance, who had assumed a sort of armor, 
with a crown of gold round her light helmet of steel. 

Even the old count, who was disposed to feel angry 
with every one who had anything to do with the flight 
of his son, could not help a slight sense of hesitation, 
though he rode up to the young chief of the crusade, fol- 
lowed by his men, and saluted him with grave sever- 
ity, saying : 

This is not well done, Stephen. Thy mother and 
Blanche should have been enough to keep thee at 
home, even if love for thy father had been a thing not 
counted in these days.” 

The boy count averted his eyes from those of his 
father, and his tone was cold and haughty as he an- 
swered ; 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


277 


“ I have taken the cross for your sake and that of 
my family. I have sworn to drive the heathen from 
Jerusalem, and when I come back I will pray that your 
sins may be forgiven you. Tempt me not, but return 
home. This holy man will tell you that it is impossible 
for me to look back now that I have taken the cross.” 

The count was nettled at the tone in which the boy 
spoke, and rapped out, angrily : 

“ How is this, malapert ? Dost thou not respect 
thy father ? I tell thee that 1 forbid thee to go on 
any such mad expedition. As for this mad priest 
who has tempted ye all from your duty, he should 
have his frock stripped from him by his bishop, 
and be scourged in broad daylight through every mar- 
ket-place where he has enticed the children of nobles 
to destruction.” 

He had hardly spoken the words, when the old monk, 
who had stood a little apart watching his pupil curi- 
ously, to see if the appeal of the count would have any 
effect, called out, solemnly : 

“ Get thee behind me, Satan, for thou savorest of this 
world ! He that will not leave father and mother for 
the cross, hath no part in it. Depart, thou cursed one, 
or it will be worse for thee !” 

The old count instantly turned on him fiercely, and 
shouted : 

“ This to a count of Provence ! Now by our Lady 
of Vaucluse, I will take order with thee if thou speak- 
est another word. This is my son, and I say that he 
shall not be carried away, to perish by the sword of the 
Turks ! Stephen, on thine obedience I command thee 
to follow me, or I will have thee taken home tied to a 
horse ! Dost thou hear me, boy ? This is not child’s 
play, I tell thee. I am a man and thy father. Who 
dares bid thee disobey me ?” 


278 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


Young Stephen hesitated, and seemed moved by the 
appeal ; for he looked at the monk as if asking help. 
And Hildebrand instantly came forward to the side of 
the old count’s horse and raised his thin arms menac- 
ingly, saying : 

Away with thee, rash man, and strive not to stay 
the march of the cross ! Beware the wrath of heaven 
and the curse of the church ! I tell thee thou hast no 
authority over a warrior of the cross !” 

The old count laughed aloud, but savagely and 
fiercely, as he roared out, at the full stretch of his 
lungs : 

“ What ho, vassals of De Vaux, rescue your young 
master, and bring him away from this camp of mad- 
men and babies !” 

The moment he said it, Hildebrand cried in answer: 

Warriors of the cross, defend your captain ! Drive 
hence these men of Belial !” 

Immediately, with a shrill cry, all the boys sprang 
toward the old count. 



T r ' ( 



CHAPTER V. 

THE APPEAL TO HEAVEN. 

The struggle between the old count’s train and that 
of the boys in the Children’s Crusade was brief and 
decisive. The count was a strong man and had twenty 
burly men-at-arms with him, but they were over- 
whelmed in a moment by the immense number of their 
opponents, who came in swarms round the horses, be- 
fore the soldiers fairly understood what was being 
done. The imposing figure of the old monk, as he 
thundered forth the curses of the church on any one 
who should presume to interrupt the crusade, had its 
effect on the men, who were superstitious to the last 
degree ; and they did not try to fight, as they might 
have otherwise done. The sight of the boys, so peace- 
ful a moment before, turned to little demons by the 
voice of the priest, had its effect on the soldiers also ; 
while they could not rescue their young master without 
drawing swords on a lot of children. 

Before they knew where they were, each horseman 
was seized by at least twenty boys tumbling over one 
another in their eagerness ; tearing them from their 
horses by main force ; taking their arms from them, 
and then standing above them, ready to pin them to 
the ground with their own swords and spears if they 
ventured to resist. 

[279] 


280 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


Old Count Stephen, in the grasp of some dozen boys 
of eighteen, ropes thrown round his limbs as he strug- 
gled, was dragged from his war-horse and thrown to 
the ground, when a big boy, holding up the sword he 
had wrenched from the old warrior’s hand, cried out to 
Hildebrand : 

“ Shall I slay the misbeliever, holy father ?” 

The boy, an ignorant peasant, evidently thought he 
had got hold of a Turk in disguise, or something of 
the sort. 

For a moment the hermit hesitated. His flashing eye 
showed that he was very angry, and he actually seemed 
tempted to give the signal for the death of the count, 
when Blanche de Vaux, with a scream of fear, and fol- 
lowed by her mother, urged her horse in by the side of 
the big boy, crying : 

“ It is my father ! My father ! Would you slay a 
good Christian as any here ? Shame on such cru- 
saders ! Stephen, hast thou no shame in thee ? Is 
this the crusade against the infidel ? Stay his hand !” 

Young Count Stephen, with a face that had become 
very pale in the excitement of the moment, cried out 
to the boy with the sword : 

“ Enough, Jacob ! It is my father, and it is written : 

‘ Honor thy father and thy mother.’ Let him rise.” 

Old Hildebrand seemed to be glad that the youth 
had taken the decision of the matter from his hands, 
for he made no resistance ; and in another moment the 
old count, sorely shaken by his fall, his face white with 
anger and shame at his discomfiture, rose slowly from 
the ground and faced his son, saying, bitterly : 

“ Thou didst wrong to sta) his hand. Better death 
than shame, and thou hast put me to open shame.” 

Young Stephen colored deeply, and the tears came 
into his eyes as his father spoke ; but the old monk, 


the children’s crusade. 


m 


who saw in his face signs of yielding to feeling, cried 
out, sternly : 

“ He that is not with us is against us. Ye cannot 
serve God and Mammon. ‘ Let the dead bury their 
dead,’ saith the Lord. ‘Follow thou me ! They that 
follow me, the same are my brother and sister and 
mother,’ saith the Lord.” 

It seemed as if the old man was gathering together 
all the harsh texts and expressions he could find in the 
New Testament to hurl at the boy, and stifle in him 
the feelings of natural affection to his parents, which 
at that moment were struggling hard to make them- 
selves heard and known. 

Young Stephen shuddered violently as he listened 
to the fierce denunciations. He had become used to 
the application and misapplication of texts on all oc- 
casions, interlarded with common discourse, according 
to the customs of the crusaders, and they did not jar 
on him as they would do to one educated in the more 
correct taste of to-day. He believed in every word 
the old monk spoke, and held that it was his duty to 
leave his father and mother, to stifle all natural affec- 
tion and to devote himself^to killing Turks for the rest 
of his life, if the monk could only justify it by some text. 

What was his astonishment, therefore, when Blanche, 
his gentle little sister, who had never till that day 
dared to raise her voice, and who was noted as a de- 
votee in the castle, suddenly spoke up to the haughty 
old monk, though her mother was cowering in dismay 
at his words, never dreaming that she could answer 
them. 

The countess had not said a word since she had 
come on the ground, contenting herself with gazing 
at her son silently, but in a way that she knew had a 
great effect on him, for he dearly loved her. 


m 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


But Blanche de Vaux, as Father Hildebrand thun- 
dered out his texts, suddenly turned her horse toward 
him, and called out in her fresh, young voice : 

“ Thou art a false prophet, much I fear me, Hilde- 
brand, and dost not preach the truth that saveth us.” 

The old monk was so much astonished at the un- 
looked-for assault that he actually started, and inquired 
unguardedly : 

“ What means the child ?” 

“I meaii this,” said Blanche, undauntedly: “The 
Lord said, on earth, that not one jot or tittle of the 
law should pass away till all should be fulfilled. The 
law is the commandments, and thou are here teaching 
these children to abandon their parents, and to expose 
the lives that God gave them to the sword of the Turk 
for no good but to swell thy vanity. Out upon thee for 
a vile man, that wouldst rob a mother of her children 
and a sister of her brother !” 

The old monk seemed staggered by her complaint, 
for he said : 

“ I entice none. They are here by their own con- 
sent, and their parents have blessed them — all but 
thine — and who are they that they should stand in the 
way of the Crusade that will win back the Sepulcher of 
the Lord from the infidels ?” 

The countess here found courage to speak, when 
she saw that the hermit would listen. With clasped 
hands and streaming eyes she addressed him, implor- 
ingly : 

“ Good hermit Hildebrand, gracious Hildebrand, 
hear me, and spare a poor, distracted mother her only 
son. Why should I, of all the mothers in France, be 
compelled to give up my boy to the Turks? If thou 
wilt but wait till he grows a little older, and is arrived 
at the full stature of man, so that he may support the 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


283 


fatigues of war, cheerfully would I grant him leave to 
go with the warriors of the cross to defend the holy 
sepulcher. But what can these children do against 
men ? What can their tender arms avail against the 
swords of the Turks ?” 

She had made a bad argument, and the hermit saw 
it, for, with a sardonic smile, the old man pointed to 
her husband and his soldiers, who were all prisoners 
and bound, and observed : 

“ Methinks they have shown ye already what they 
can do to armed men. The Lord will give them 
strength, for they are his children, and his strength 
will be on them. Get thee behind me, Satan !” 

“ But surely thou wilt not let the poor boy go with- 
out the blessing of his mother ?” asked the unhappy 
lady, piteously. 

Hildebrand shook his head. 

“ That will not be necessary at all. Bless him, and 
the blessing will return on thee. But it is all one 
whether ye bless or curse. The cross on his shoulder 
hath given him a power to bless that none other in the 
world can show. He is as holy to-day as a monk in the 
chapel saying mass.” 

Here Stephen, addressing his mother, said, in a 
broken tone : 

“ Dearest lady mother, why shouldst thou fear for 
me ? I am under the protection of Heaven ; and what 
errand can be holier than that of rescuing the Sepulcher 
of our Lord from the grasp of the unbelievers ? Think 
what a triumph it will be when we regain it, and are 
able to sing praises on the very ground where he 
preached and gave healing to the nations.” 

His mother, shaken by his appeal, could not answer 
him, and even the stern face of the old count softened; 
for, like all in his day, he was superstitious to the last 


284 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


degree, and the boy had struck him in his tenderest 
point. 

With a groan, he said to his wife : 

“ It is our fate, my lady. We cannot take him from 
the crusade without a deadly sin ; and, after all, per- 
haps he will be taken care of. Truly the errand is a 
blessed one, if he were but a little older.” 

Father and mother seemed to be alike conquered, in 
spite of themselves, when Blanche, with the same 
fearlessness that had already astonished the old monk, 
addressed her brother, saying : 

“ Thou sayest words of folly, Stephen ; and thine er- 
rand is a bad one” 

And just as had happened with the monk, the boy 
count seemed to be surprised at her boldness and puz- 
zled as to her meaning, for he answered her hesitat- 
ingly : 

“ What meanest thou, Blanche ? How can the cru- 
sade be unholy or bad ? Art thou against the voice of 
the church ?” 

Blanche was but a girl, but she had all a woman’s 
intuitive perception of shams, though she could not 
have told the logical reason of her feelings. With a 
toss of her little head, she spoke out : 

“ Thou sayest that it is a holy task to rescue the 
Sepulcher of our Lord from the Turks by slaying all 
that come in thy way ?” 

“ It is a holy war,” replied Stephen, sharply. “ Barest 
thou deny it?” 

“ Then, if it be a holy war, God will be with ye at all 
times,” the girl retorted. “ He gave the land of Israel 
to the Jews, and they prospered. But He hath per- 
mitted the Turks to take it from the Christians, and 
therefore it seems that He hath shown us plainly that 
He careth nothing for the sepulcher wherein the body 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


285 


once lay that is now in heaven. I say that this mad 
crusade, which is begun against our fathers’ and moth- 
ers’ advice, will end in disaster, as others have, and 
that the wrath of God will smite thee for disobedience 
to the commandments. Thy days shall not be long in 
the land, and all with thee shall perish, even to the 
priest that has led ye into sin.” 

Her words were listened to in silence ; but as soon 
as she had finished, the old hermit, who saw that they 
had produced a gr.eat effect on all the young people 
there, the more so that they were entirely unexpected, 
ran forward and cried out angrily : 

“ Who is this child that presumes to lecture her 
elders on their duties ? Let her keep silence and re- 
tire, or heavy will be the penance on her for her in- 
solence.” 

Then he broke forth into one of his impassioned 
harangues, which had already produced such an effect, 
wherever he had been in the habit of preaching, ad- 
dressing himself alternately to the old count, the 
countess and the children of the crusade, till he had 
wrought them up to the old piteh of enthusiasm ; and 
even old Count Stephen, with a fervency that he had 
never dreamed he would be called on to exhibit, joined 
in the cry of the crusader : 

“ Dieu le veult ! Dieu le veult !” 

The children were shouting, weeping, praying aloud, 
wild with excitement ; the poor countess, unable to re- 
sist the contagion of the scene, had ceased to hope for 
her son ; and the only person who seemed unmoved by 
the cries and confusion was the quiet little girl who had 
never raised her voice at home. 

Stay ; yes, there was one other ; but he was a mere 
peasant, and his voice, had he dared to raise it, would 
not have been heeded. Big Peter, who had followed 


286 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


the old count’s train, had not attempted to join in the 
struggle which had resulted so ignominiously for the 
soldiers of the party, but had sat on his horse a little 
retired from the rest, looking on at the scene with an 
unmoved countenance. 

When the hermit concluded his sermon and called 
on all present to “ join the crusade or depart there- 
from as disturbers,” the count and his wife advanced 
and solemnly embraced the boy count, taking their 
departure as those who never expect to see their loved 
one again in life. Then the ofd hermit spoke to 
Blanche, saying harshly : 

“Now, damsel, depart also ; or, if thou wilt remain, 
take on thy breast the same cross as the rest.” 

Blanche shook her head and urged her horse beside 
her brother, saying simply : 

“ If Stephen will not drive me away, I will remain 
with him and share his perils ; but I will not pretend 
that I do so to save my soul. I go to help him ; but 1 
zvill not take the cross T 

Stephen seemed to be affected by her speech, for he 
took her hand and said before the old priest : 

“ Then, by the cross on my shoulder, sweet sister, 
thou shalt stay with me and depart when thou 
pleasest. When danger comes, thou shalt be sheltered 
from it.” 

“ I wish nothing of the sort,” she replied. “ Bound 
by a vow I will not be ; but we shall see, ere this cru- 
sade is over, whether those who are sworn to stay will 
do as well as she who goes willingly.” 

Then Big Peter came up beside his young master’s 
horse, saying : 

“ I am my lord’s foster-brother, who never deserted 
him yet in danger. Will my lord let me go with him 
to Palestine ?” 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


287 


Stephen looked surprised. 

“ And why shouldst thou go to Palestine ? Thou 
hast no vow to bind thee, as I have, and the journey is 
full of peril.” 

Big Peter shrugged his broad shoulders indiffer- 
ently. 

That is all one to me, master. If a tender child 
like the lady Blanche can go with thee, I can do the 
same without a vow. We will see who goes farthest on 
the way to Jerusalem ere we have finished. If the 
hermit will let me, I will go.” 

Stephen threw up his head rather haughtily. 

“/am the captain of this crusade, and what / say 
will be done. I shall be glad to have thee with me as 
of old, to help me as thou hast been wont to do.. Now 
let the trumpets sound the advance, and we will set 
forth for Marseilles.” 

Big Peter, with a slight smile that he could not sup- 
press, noticed that the old hermit did not attempt to 
control the young crusader, but permitted him to have 
his own way, as the trumpets sounded the advance, and 
the children resumed their march. 

Hildebrand, like Peter the Hermit before him, as 
soon as the crusade was fairly on its way, assumed no 
authority, but followed in the ranks as one of the rest. 
The captain of the crusade was evidently as jealous of 
his authority as Nicholas had been ; though he exer- 
cised it in a different way. He gave all the directions 
to the bodies of children to march and halt. Big Peter 
and Blanche, whom he permitted to accompany him, 
were treated with a distinction that did not extend to 
the hermit himself, save when he was preaching. 

Thus they marched on for the rest of the day ; and, 
when night came, were within a few miles of Mar- 
seilles, the peasants from all the country around flock- 


288 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


ing- to feed them, as had happened all through the 
journey. 

As soon as camp was pitched, the young leader of 
the crusade told Big Peter to follow him, and called 
for a mule for Father Hildebrand, who accompanied 
them to the city of Marseilles. It was a fine, moonlight 
night and they could see their way plainly, while the 
population of the country round had brought torches 
and lanterns, and were turning night into day in the 
excitement which had accompanied the Children’s Cru- 
sade wherever it w^ent. 

The old monk went with him because his services 
would be needed in dealing with outsiders. The chil- 
dren obeyed their leader well enough ; but grown 
men would listen to the hermit where they would 
have hesitated to treat with a boy, even of Stephen’s 
family. Hildebrand had found a merchant named 
Charles Marcel, who had promised that he would fur- 
nish shipping for the children to Palestine, and he 
agreed to perform his promise as soon as he heard that 
the crusade had arrived. 

Then they rode back to the camp, and found it in a 
state of great excitement, for word had just come to 
them that Nicholas had refused to remain under the 
orders of Stephen any longer, and had turned the 
course of his march toward Italy, while they had been 
disputing with old Count Stephen. The crusade was 
breaking up. 




CHAPTER VI. 

THE TURKISH GALLEYS. 

This news proved true ; and the children commanded 
"by Nicholas separated from those under Stephen and 
marched toward Italy, the peasants on the way receiv- 
ing- them with all the demonstrations of welcome which 
had greeted the whole body wherever it had gone. 

The old hermit, at first inclined to persuade Nicho- 
las to come back, had encountered, in Stephen, an un- 
expected obstacle. The young count had absolutely 
refused to be bound by the orders of the old man, and 
declared that he was Captain of the Crusade, and as 
long as he performed his vow he would take orders 
from his own conscience. He insisted that, the ships 
being ready to take the children, it would be a tempt- 
ing of Providence to let go the opportunity that might 
never return ; and the old hermit was compelled to 
acquiesce, and embarked on the evening of the second 
day after their arrival at Marseilles. 

Then it was found that the crusade, which had al- 
ready torn so many children from their parents, had 
been unable to keep them together, as the hermit had 
hoped. Thirty thousand children had come from Ven- 
dome with Nicholas ; twenty thousand of these had 
gone off with Nicholas on their way to Italy ; and half 

[289] 


290 THE children's CRUSADE. 

of the rest dropped off at Marseilles, leaving five 
thousand only as the strength of the crusade that was 
to capture the sepulcher from the Turks. 

The same number of grown men, picked warriors of 
Europe, would have been too feeble a force under the 
best general in the world : but such was the enthusias- 
tic confidence of the age in its wild enterprise that half 
the population of Marseilles came down to see the chil- 
dren embark, and the ships sailed out of the harbor, the 
boy warriors singing the hymn of “Veni, Creator, 
Spiritus,” with the cheerful confidence that they had 
only to show themselves for all the Turks in the East 
to fall down and abjure their religion. 

Still; there was something about this crusade, under 
the boy count, which made it different from others of 
those ill-starred enterprises. Stephen, boy as he was, 
had a brain that was strong and sensible, though his 
romantic belief in the dreams of the old hermit had 
carried him away. He had but five thousand boys with 
him ; but they were all armed, by the offerings of the 
pious, on the way ; and, had they been men of experi- 
ence, might have rendered a good account of them- 
selves. The youngest on board the fleet was sixteen, 
and the majority were as old as Stephen himself. More- 
over, they were for the most part youths of noble 
families, who had been brought up to the exercises of 
arms, in a way with which we are unfamiliar to-day. 
They could all shoot the bow or cross-bow — the latter 
a weapon then being introduced in France, though not 
yet common. They all had armor of some sort, if only 
a helmet and buckler ; and provisions were plenty on 
the fleet, thanks to the offerings of the pious people of 
Marseilles and Provence in general. 

Besides the boys, who were the warriors of the ex- 
pedition, there were nearly a hundred girls on the 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


291 


fleet, under the leadership of Isabel Durance, who had 
been crowned Queen of the Crusade, with due solemn- 
ity, by Hildebrand, just before their departure from 
Marseilles. 

Their duties were to wait on the sick and wounded, 
when such were to be found in the fleet, and among 
them Blanche de Vaux was the only one who did not 
wear the cross on her shoulder and obey the orders of 
the Queen of the Crusade. 

In fact, it was easy to see that the same jealousy that 
had existed between Stephen and Nicholas, which had 
broken up the children’s crusade into two bodies, was 
operating between Isabel and Blanche, but in a differ- 
ent way. Blanche did not like Isabel, who returned 
the compliment with interest, though both were evi- 
dently fond of Stephen, for they were always near 
him. 

But likings and dislikings apart, the wind blew fair 
for the young crusaders and the skies were bright, and 
the boy count, as he stood on the lofty carved stern of 
the galley in which he led his little fleet, wore an ex- 
pression of rapt enthusiasm on his handsome young 
face, as he said softly to Blanche : 

“ At last, my sister, we are on the way to the land 
which was once trod by the feet of our Lord. Dost 
thou not feel already the blessing of Heaven rests 
upon us ?” 

Blanche sighed slightly. Isabel, who was on the 
other side of the young leader, answered for her, in 
her usual impetuous way : 

“ The lady Blanche is not with us, though she sails 
with us. But when we plant the banner of the cross on 
the towers of Jerusalem, then shall she wish that she had 
taken the cross herself.” 

“ Not so,” replied Blanche, steadily. “ It is one 


292 


THE CHILDREN S CRUSADE. 


thing to see Jerusalem and another to take the cross 
and kill men in the name of the God who said, ‘ thou 
shalt not kill.’ We shall see Jerusalem, but the sight 
will make none of us the better.” 

“ How sayest thou ?” asked the young count, sharply ; 
for the vSpeech of his sister, in opposition to his dreams, 
always irritated him, dearly as he loved her. “We shall 
see Jerusalem, but the sight will make none better 
What folly is this ?” 

Blanche turned her dark eyes on him with a strange, 
yearning look, that haunted him many a year after, as 
she replied : 

“ We shall see it ; but not as conquerors. The time is 
coming, and that soon, when we shall see whether God 
is with us or not." 

The young count struck the bulwark of the galley 
impatiently with his gauntlet, as he cried : 

“ Now, by the cross on my shoulder, sister, if thou 
hadst thought that, thou shouldst never have come 
with us.” 

Big Peter, who was standing nigh them, behind his 
young lord, here coughed slightly, and Stephen, in the 
same angry manner as that with which he greeted his 
sister’s words, turned on him fiercely, saying : 

“ And thou, too ? Dost thou think we shall end in 
disaster ?” 

Big Peter compressed his lips, and after a short pause, 
said in a tone of great gravity : 

“ What a man like me thinks, will not alter the case, 
my lord. I came to follow my lord, and die for him, 
if need be. A man can do that, and the angels will 
find him, whether he have a cross on his shoulder or 
not.” 

The impetuous but warm-hearted boy held out his 
hand to his faithful servant, saying : 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


293 


“ I was wrong to chide thee. Thee, at least, I can 
trust to fight. To-morrow will show us.” 

“Ay, ay, my lord,” said Big Peter, slowly. “To- 
morrow will show ; and it will be seen then whether 
the hermit Hildebrand be a prophet as he says or what 
my lady Blanche called him.” 

And this time neither the boy count nor Isabel said 
a word. The speech of the young vassal had cast a 
shade of thoughtfulness over them all, as they realized 
that they had gone too far to recede. 

Still the heavens continued as fair and pleasant as 
could be desired, and the northerly breezes wafted on 
the little fleet. There were ten ships of burden, 
equipped with sails only, very broad and bluff in 
shape, in which the majority of the boy crusaders had 
embarked. They were trading-ships, not meant for 
battle ; and to guard them in the fight, there were five 
galleys — long, low vessels, with rows of oars on either 
side, pulled by crews of slaves, whose dark faces 
showed that they were Arabs or Turks — which, in truth, 
they were. They had been taken captive in the pre- 
vious crusades and were chained to the benehes on 
which they sat, performing their tasks in sullen silenee, 
under the lash of the masters set over them. 

It was a remarkable thing that the Christians, who 
were so loud in their complaints of the cruelties of the 
Turks toward Christian slaves, practiced the same or 
greater cruelties on all the unfortunate Moslems who 
fell into their power. It was also remarkable that the 
young crusaders, whose youth should have made them 
tender-hearted naturally, showed toward their rowers 
in the galleys, on that memorable crusade, even more 
cruelty than the grown sailors who manned the fleet. 
Blanche de Vaux and Big Peter, who wore no crosses 
on their shoulders, were the only people in the fleet 


294 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


who seemed to pity the unfortunate creatures in the 
least ; and soon after the conversation in which Big 
Peter had shown himself capable of rousing in the 
young count the first thoughtful mood he had yet 
shown, the Lady Blanche, followed by the faithful 
vassal, went forward, past the benches of the rowers, 
and actually arrested a blow that was about to fall on 
the shoulders of one of the unhappy creatures, who had 
fallen half over his oar as if completely exhausted with 
fatigue or sickness. 

Shame on thee for one who calls himself a warrior 
of the cross !” she said, indignantly, to the boy who 
had raised his stick. “ Is that the way to follow the 
cross ? It is written : ‘ If thine enemy hunger, feed 
him ; if he thirst, give him drink.’ Is that the way 
thou followest the Scriptures ?” 

The boy crusader curled his lip, though he did not 
dare to resist the sister of his young leader. 

“ We shall all be forgiven our sins if we reach the 
Holy Sepulcher,” he said. “ As for these Turks, they 
are misbelievers and they deserve death and stripes. 
One infidel the less will never be missed.” 

Then he went away forward, and Blanche turned 
toward the young slave whose attitude of exhaustion 
had brought on him the correction. The poor young 
man — for he was barely twenty — had a dark but ex- 
ceedingly handsome face, though it was thin and sick- 
ly-looking. His large dark eyes were full of gentleness 
and appeal as he cast on the beautiful girl who had 
saved him a glance that told of his thankfulness. 
Something in that looked stirred all the pity in 
Blanche’s breast, as she inquired : 

“What is thy name, friend ? Art thou sick ?” 

The young slave bowed his head over his oar with a 
deep sigh as he answered in broken French ; 


The children’s crusade. 


295 


My name is forgotten among my people, lady. 
No one remembers the slave. If he be well, they beat 
him ; if sick, they beat him harder. But Saphadim 
will not forget the lady in the last day.” 

“ In the last day ?” echoed the girl, puzzled. “ What 
meanest thou ?” 

Saphadim glanced up at Big Peter, who was looking 
at him in his usual stolid fashion, not showing much 
expression on his face. The girl understood the glance, 
and answered : 

“ Speak out. We have no cross on our shoulders, 
and will not harm thee.” 

The dark eyes of the young Turk blazed with a 
singular fire as he replied in a low voice, as if afraid of 
being overheard : 

“ In the last day, when the angel Azrael shall lead 
the true believers over the bridge A1 Sirat, Saphadim, 
who has never yet omitted his prayers, will ask of the 
angel a boon to lead with him the lady who showed him 
pity, though a Christian. The rest shall be plunged in 
the fire that never dieth, where Eblis reigns forever.” 

Big Peter, with a slight smile to his young mistress at 
her look of puzzlement, observed dryly : 

“ My lady sees that the Christians are not permitted 
to have all the cursing to themselves. This miscreant 
can curse as well as old Hildebrand ; and the Turks 
have their own hell for us, it seems.” 

“ But what is the bridge A1 Sirat ?” asked Blanche, 
curiously. 

“ It is the bridge over which all souls must pass at 
the last judgment,” said the Turk, solemnly. “ It is 
the edge of a sabre, fine as a razor, and beneath it are 
the fires of Eblis, or Sheitan. Into that fire will fall all 
who cannot call on the name of the prophet and hold 
the hand of the angel to guide them aright.” 


29C 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


“ And thou wilt ask the angel to let me come with 
thee ?” asked the girl, curiously. 

Saphadim bowed his head solemnly. 

“ I will, because thou art the only Christian that hath 
taken pity on a true believer, in his affliction.” 

Big Peter, with the same half-amused smile, asked 
in turn : 

“ And where shall I go, friend Turk ?” 

Saphadim turned and eyed him narrowly, and then 
resumed his weary task at the oar, saying, gruffly : 

“ Thou wilt go where it pleases God to take thee.” 

The big fellow laughed as he turned away, remark- 
ing to Blanche : 

“ ’Tis the truest word spoken yet on this galley. 
That shall we all do, and it will be all the same in the 
end.” 

Then the two strolled away along the line of the 
rowers ; the lady, by her presence, checking a great 
deal of the brutality that was shown to the unfortunate 
prisoners at the oars, till the evening came on, and the 
wind fell with it, when the ships of burden took down 
their sails in the cautious fashion of that day, and the 
whole fleet rested for the night, not daring to sail on, 
in the absence of the compass, which makes naviga- 
tion so easy in our days. 

Quiet brooded over the fleet till morning, and even 
the poor slaves at the oars were allowed to sleep in 
their places as well as their long chains would permit. 
But the first blush of the morning brought them all up, 
and as soon as it was daylight they perceived that a 
number of sails were visible right ahead of their 
fleet. 

The intelligence spread through the fleet rapidly, 
and as the sun rose and disclosed the strangers more 
plainly, the young crusaders saw a number of galleys 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


297 


sweeping down toward them under oar and sail, with 
the red flag and golden crescent of the Turkish stand- 
ard displayed from every mast-head. Their enemies 
were already on them, though they were only just out 
of sight of the coast of France, while the island of 
Corsica rose on their left hand, with its barren chains 
of mountains. They had expected to find the Turks 
in the Holy Land, but the Turks had found them on 
their own coasts. 

Then one might see of what stuff was made every 
member of the Children’s Crusade. The old hermit, 
who had preached so bravely in the market-place of 
V aucluse, had turned pale and was saying his prayers 
by himself, with a strange expression of fear. The 
boys who had been vaporing the day before of the 
number of Turks they were going to kill, had become 
silent all of a sudden ; while the quiet ones, with pale 
faces, were looking to the strings of their cross-bows 
and getting ready for the battle that even the children 
saw could not be avoided. 

The boy count, his fine face full of enthusiasm that 
knew no fear, was encouraging them to fight bravely 
for the cross and promising the joys of heaven to those 
who fell early ; while Isabel, the queen of the crusade, 
with her little band of nurses, was busy getting the 
linen bandages ready for the expected wounds. 

They had not long to wait, for it was evident that 
the Turks had been lying in wait for them and were 
coming down with bad intent. In their fleet there 
were fifty or more galleys, and they came on with a 
rapid impetuosity that showed they expected an easy 
victory. Within half an hour from the time the sun 
rose, they were close to the fleet of the Children’s Cru- 
sade, and the sounds of their drums and fifes — for the 
Turks were the inventors of that sort of military music 


298 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


— could be plainly heard mingled with the hoarse shouts 
that accompanied their advance. 

The nearer they came and the louder they shouted, 
the more subdued was the appearance of the young 
crusaders. Even the boy Stephen, who had been 
dreaming of an easy victory, began to change coun- 
tenance, and went up to the old hermit, saying : 

“ Arouse thee. Father Hildebrand ! The unbelievers 
approach ! Now is the time to enourage the laggards 
in the fleet.” 

To his amazement and incredulous anger, the old 
man faltered and broke down, murmuring, con- 
fusedly : 

“ It is not the place of a monk to fight. ‘ Vengeance 
is mine, and I will repay,’ saith the Lord. Pray that 
ye may be helped, as Gideon was, by a miracle. Alas ! 
my son, we have fallen on evil days !” 

Then there was no more time for talk, for the shouts 
of the Turks grew louder and more menacing as they 
came ; and the young leader, with all the fighting blood 
of his father in him, shouted : 

“ Fight for the cross, children of heaven ! Death 
at the hand of the unbeliever is a sure passport to 
heaven ! ” 

And as he said it, the foremost ship of the Turks 
struck his own galley, and, with a yell, the dark-faced 
men leaped aboard. 




CHAPTER VII. 

CHAINS AND SLAVERY. 

The contest between the Turks and the boys of the 
Children’s Crusade was too unequal to last long. The 
big, fierce, bearded men, with their wild yells and 
ferocious faces, frightened the lads who dared to op- 
pose them, almost before they had leaped aboard ; 
while the few who fought were cut with merciless 
ferocity. The slaves, chained down at the oars, howl- 
ing with delight, caught at the unhappy boys who came 
near them and dragged them down beneath the benches 
to avenge the blows they had received. 

Even flight did not avail the few who tried it. Their 
galleys, rowed by Turkish slaves, who refused to work 
and bit and fought like tigers in their desperation, 
were rapidly overtaken by the triumphant infidels. 
Within an hour from the time the Turkish fleet had 
been fully recognized, every vessel of the Children’s 
Crusade had been taken ; every grown man on board 
stabbed or thrown overboard, save the old hermit. 
The poor boys, who had sailed forth, dreaming of re- 
gaining the Sepulcher, found themselves cast into the 

[299] 


300 


THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE. 


holds of the enemy’s galleys, or chained at the oars of 
the slaves that had been released by the Turks ; 
prisoners to masters who gloated over their miseries 
and jeered at them in their strange tongue for what 
the Turks evidently rated at its true woyth, the ‘‘ Mad 
Crusade.” 

The sole exception to the fate of the crusaders was 
found in the person of young Count Stephen, who, 
fully armed and expert with his weapons, had fought 
like a tiger, killing three Turks with his own hand, 
through the skill taught him by his father. He had 
been at last overpowered by numbers, unwounded on 
account of the goodness of his armor. The Turks, 
recognizing in him the leader, with a respect for his 
bravery which was not uncommon in those singular 
wars, had granted him a sort of liberty, when he was 
taken on board the ship of the admiral, whose prisoner 
he was. 

Big Peter had fought by his master till grievously 
wounded, and had been taken with Stephen on board 
the Turkish admiral’s ship, where he lay on the deck, 
tended by Blanche, who was weeping silently over him. 

The Turks had not harmed any of the girls, but had 
taken them all on board the admiral’s ship, where they 
were huddled together in a shuddering group, fearing 
everything and complaining of the way in which “the 
old hermit had led them to destruction.” 

Yes, it had come to that. The old man, crouched 
in the stern of the boy count’s galley, had been spared 
by the Turks and hauled on board their admiral’s 
ship, where he sat in a corner in a stupor of de- 
spair, not daring so much as to raise his eyes from the 
deck. 

Isabel Durance, the Queen of the Crusade, the crown, 
with which she had been invested at Marseilles, still 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


301 


shining on her forehead as if in mockery of her mis- 
fortune, was trying to comfort her friends, but with 
ill success. Stephen, pale as death, an expression of 
utter despair on his face, stood by the stern of the 
Turkish admiral, and listened stupidly to the words 
of his conqueror, who spoke broken French, and was 
trying to find from him, as well as he could, what had 
brought him forth on such a mad errand. 

“ The medicine of adversity is bitter,” said the Turk, 
sententiously, in the manner of his countrymen ; “ but 
the man that drinketh it findeth his health. How 
came it, O Frank, that thou hast ventured out to 
fight with men ere thy beard be grown ?” 

Stephen hung his head lower, but as the tone of the 
Turk showed that he expected a reply, he said, in a 
low voice : 

“ I trusted in Heaven, and it deserted me. That is 
all.” * 

The Turk — a fine-looking man, of stout figure — 
frowned. 

“ That is not well said, Frank. There are many that 
call on the name of Allah, but he protects only those 
that obey his word.” 

Then he continued, sternly : 

“ Who is that old man who crouches yonder ? Is he 
one of the mad mollahs * that they tell us about, who 
preaches that Allah wills his worshipers to kill one 
another ?” 

Stephen looked at Hildebrand bitterly, saying : 

“ He told us that the Lord would work a miracle, and 
we believed him.” 

The Turk bowed his head gravely, saying : 


* “Mollahs” are Turkish priests. The Arabs call them “Imaums.” 
Dervishes, marabouts and santons are differeut sects of priests, strongly 
resembling the monks and friars of Christianity. 


m 


C«tLt)REN’3 CRUSADE* 


“ He is an old man. We have such amongf our def^ 
vishes, and they are under the protection of Allah. 
Let him live. His punishment has come already. But 
as for thee — who art thou that wishest Allah to work 
miracles for thee, when he refused to work them for 
his own prophet, on whose name be blessings ?” 

Stephen, bred up from his babyhood in a fiery hatred 
of the Arabian prophet, instantly answered sharply, 
and with his native courage : 

“ He was no prophet. He was a liar, and could work 
no-miracle. Our saints have worked them." 

The Turk flushed deeply, and his black eyes glowed, 
as he retorted : 

“ That is ill said, foolish Frank. This day hast thou 
seen that the God of heaven is with us and against thee 
and thy saints. But thou art a brave youth, after all, 
and we will make a good Moslem of thee, so thou shalt 
fight as well for the crescent as thou hast done for the 
cross." 

“ That will I never !" retorted the boy, fiercely. “ Do 
thy worst, infidel, and thou shalt see how a Christian 
gentleman can die for his faith. It was for our sins 
that we have been punished, and but for them we 
could have overcome all the armies of the false prophet 
Mahound." 

He spoke with all the bitterness of disappointment, 
and with an idea of so goading the Turk by his taunts 
that he might kill him ; for the excited boy, in his 
humiliation, could see no way in which life could be 
tolerable to him. 

The Turk, for a moment, looked as if he were about 
to strike him ; but then, with a great effort, controlled 
his passion, saying : 

“ Men war not with boys. When thou art a man, in 
thy turn, thou canst tell other men that Dragut Aga 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


303 


spared his prisoner, though he reviled the prophet of 
God. But God hears such things daily, and he lets the 
offenders live. Who is Dragut Aga that he should be 
more than his God ? Thou speakest like a child.*' 

So saying, the indignant Turk walked away from his 
angry prisoner, and was giving some directions to his 
men, when his ship was hailed from one of the cap- 
tured galleys — the very one in which Stephen had been 
taken prisoner. 

The hail and its answer were in a strange tongue, 
and the boy count did not understand them ; but he 
perceived that the news sent from the captured vessel 
was of a nature that excited Dragut Aga greatly. The 
Turkish admiral gave orders to stop rowing, and as the 
other vessel dashed up alongside, they could see that 
the boy crusaders were working like madmen at the 
oars, while the late slaves, now turned masters, were 
flogging them unmercifully, accompanying every blow 
with laugh or jeer, as if they were revenging them- 
selves on their late tyrants. 

To poor Stephen, who saw it all as he stood by the 
stern of the Turkish admiral’s ship, the scene was one 
of intense pain. Try as he might to steel himself by 
memories of the great cause, as. he thought it, in which 
he had embarked, he could not help the conviction 
that, but for his joining the crusade as its leader, and 
rejecting the advice of his father and mother, these 
poor boys now suffering the tortures of slavery might 
have been safe at home in France. In spite of him- 
self he uttered a groan, and as he did so, his eyes fell 
on his sister Blanche, kneeling by the side of poor 
Peter, whose pale face, already of that peculiar sickly 
hue that gives token of approaching death, dealt him 
another stab in his self-esteem. Blanche caught his 
eye, and made him a signal to come to her. Then, 


304 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


as he knelt down by his dying foster-brother, Big 
Peter opened his eyes and smiled faintly, as he whis- 
pered : 

*‘Good my lord, I shall never see Vaucluse again.” 

Then the young leader of the Children’s Crusade 
broke down utterly, and sobbed as he knelt by his 
faithful servitor : 

Oh, Peter, Peter, if I could but give my life for 
thee, I would give it gladly.” 

Big Peter faintly moved his head in dissent. 

“ It is very easy to die, my lord,” he whispered. 
“ The hard thing will be to liveT 

Stephen buried his face in his hands and sobbed. 
His stoicism had departed at last, and he had not a word 
to say, till Peter put out his feeble hand and touched 
him, whispering : 

“ It is the place of the servant to die for his lord. 
'^Vityou will see France again.” 

Stephen started at the words, and gazed earnestly in 
the face of his dying foster-brother. 

“Alas ! Peter, thou art not in thy right senses,” he 
said. “ No one ever came back from captivity to 
the Turks. And if they would give me freedom, what 
should I be to take it, when all these poor Christians 
will toil out the rest of their lives under the lash ?” 

Then, as he noted the face of his foster-brother, he 
added : 

“ Let me send Father Plildebrand to thee, to soothe 
thy last moments.” 

Big Peter allowed an expression of strong dislike to 
cross his face, as he said : 

“ Any one but him, my lord. But for him, we should 
all be safe at home, and your lady mother happy, as 
she was a week since. No, no, my lord. If my sins 
cannot be forgiven without sending to save me the 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


305 


man who had wrought all this mischief, let me die un- 
shriven.” 

He closed his eyes in his weakness, and spoke no 
more. Just at that moment, the bustle on board the 
other vessel increased as the two ships came together,, 
and a man stepped from the rail of the captured galley 
to that of Dragut Aga’s ship. 

Then arose a great shouting on board the Turkish 
admiral’s ship. The sailors and soldiers crowded 
round the newcomer, whom they received with every 
mark of the most extravagant joy ; while Stephen, ab- 
sorbed in the dying struggles of his foster-brother, did 
not look up till he heard his sister’s voice, saying : 

“ It is all over, Stephen. He hath gone where there 
are no sepulchers or death. Peter was a faithful serv- 
ant and will have his reward, though he did not take 
the cross.” 

Stephen saw that she spoke the truth. His foster- 
brother had gone, and the poor, deluded boy bent his 
head lower, burying his head in his hands and groan- 
ing : 

“And he died for me, too.” 

Then he sank into a stupor of misery, from which 
he was roused by a rude hand on his shoulder ; and 
looking up, he beheld Dragut Aga, with a young man 
by his side, who, from his dress, was a Turk, though 
that dress was only a slave’s tunic. 

Dragut signed Stephen to get up, and said tO' 
him : 

“ Now, young Christian, thou shalt see that the 
servants of the prophet are stronger than the serv- 
ants of the cross. Knowest thou who this youth beside 
me is ?” 

Stephen stared stupidly at him, and then turning 
his head, beheld his sister Blanche gazing at the 


306 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


young Turk with an expression as if she recognized 
him. But he could only shake his head, saying : 

“ I know him not.” 

Then the young Turk himself spoke, eying him 
with a smile of triumph that Stephen did not under- 
stand. 

“I am Saphadim, the son of the sultan of Jerusa- 
lem. I was a slave, toiling on the oar in your ship. 
Your boys, who thought they were men, smote me 
with whips. I found in that galley but one who showed 
me kindness. But she wore no cross. Behold the one 
in all thy fleet who shall be set free and sent home 
again. But as for thee, who hast allowed a prince of 
the house of Saladin to be struck with whips, thy 
doom is sealed. You shall all see Jerusalem, but ye 
shall curse the day in which ye saw it. Take 
the Christian dog and chain him to an oar, that he 
may know what it is to fieht against the servants of 
Allah.” 

As he spoke he made a signal, at which two stalwart 
Turks rushed at Stephen, and were about to drag him 
off, when Blanche, with a shriek she could not restrain, 
darted forward and clung round the knees of the young 
Turkish prince, crying : 

“ My lord, my lord, it is my brother : Give him to 
me, and I will bless thy name forever ! We are the 
only children of our parents, and they are old. For- 
giveness of injuries is blessed, but revenge never ends. 
Give me my brother !’ 

Prince Saphadim seemed to be astonished as he 
listened to her, for he echoed amazedly : 

“ Thy brother ! This ! But I thought this was thy 
brother !” 

He pointed, as he spoke, to the dead body of Peter, 
which had not yet been removed. 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


307 

Then, as Blanche began to explain, he waved her 
off, saying ; 

“But that is all one. Five years have I suffered in 
the prisons of the Christians, and they must be avenged. 
This alone I give thee : If thy brother serve me faith- 
fully for five years, I will set him free after that time, 
and he shall be my own slave ; but the rest shall be 
sold in the market.” 

Blanche heard him, and answered : 

“ Then, if he stays, so do I. I came on this ship to 
be nigh him, and I would not go back to my father and 
mother without him. Give us both our freedom or 
neither.” 

The young Turk seemed to be amazed at her speech, 
for he said : 

“ Nay, nay ; consider that this is but a foolish thing 
thou sayest. It is good to be free, but a slave is lower 
than a dog. Take thy freedom and go home in hap- 
piness.” 

“ I will stay by my brother,” said the undaunted girl, 
steadily, “ and nothing shall tear me from him.” 

And as if to show him that she meant what she said, 
she went and put her arms around Stephen, who only 
hung his head lower than before, his face assuming 
an expression of deeper contrition than it had yet 
worn. 

The Turkish prince and Dragut contemplated the 
two in silence, and Stephen muttered, feebly : 

“ Take thy freedom, Blanche, while thou canst. Thou 
cant do us no good by staying, and it will be but one 
more to make miserable.” 

“ Brother,” she answered, quietly, “ when thou didst 
take the cross I refused to follow thee, for our Lord 
never meant men to kill one another for the sake of an 
empty tomb ; but now that thou art in suffering, and I 


308 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


can help thee, I am ready to share thy lot in adversity, 
thoug-h I would not take the cross.” 

Just at that moment young Saphadim, who seemed to 
have been considering how he could discharge his obli- 
gation of gratitude to Blanche, about which he was evi- 
dently superstitious, without letting go his vengeance 
on the rest, spoke again. 

“ Girl,” he said to Blanche, “ I have offered thee 
liberty, and thou hast refused it. I have said that thy 
brother shall have but five years’ slavery, after which 
he shall be free. Ask of me the life and liberty of any 
of these in exchange for thine own and thou shalt have 
it. The prophet saith that gratitude is like the seed of 
wheat that is scattered on fertile ground ! It increaseth 
forever.” 

Blanche was surprised at the way he spoke, but 
shook her head, saying, quietly : 

“If thou couldst grant me the lives of all here in re- 
turn for my own, then would I gladly give it up ; but 
what profit would it be to the rest of these poor crea- 
tures if one were to be released ? It would but make 
the bitterness of slavery the more bitter for those who 
remained in chains.” 

“ Nevertheless,” persisted the young Turk, “ ask the 
liberty of one of these here, and thou shalt have it 
freely.” 

The girl hesitated a moment, and then said : 

“Free my brother, then, and take my life !” 

The Turk bowed his head with a look of some dis- 
appointment. 

“ I have promised it, and it shall be done, though I 
would it had been another. lie shall be freed at once.” 

Then, turning to Stephen, he went on : 

“ Art thou willing to take thy liberty at the price of 
that of thy sister ?” 




CHAPTER VIII. 

THE RANSOM -SEEKERS. 

The question of the young- Turk to Stephen was put 
in a tone of proud contempt, as if the speaker despised 
the person to whom it was addressed, but expected it 
to be answered in the affirmative. 

Count Stephen listened silently, like a man in a 
dream, but made no answer till the words had been re- 
peated. Then he said, in a low tone, as if he were 
thinking deeply : 

“ It needed but that ; it needed but that !” 

He shook his head as he spoke ; but the Turk, not 
understanding what he meant, repeated impatiently : 

“ Give me thine answer, slave ! Dost thou wish thy 
freedom ?” 

Then Steph<=‘n turned on him at last, as if he fully 
understood what he had said, and his eyes shone with 
a strange light as he replied, looking the Turk in the 
face : 

“ What should be said of a man who would buy his 
life at the price of another’s, and how would your 
prophet look on such a man ?” 

Thus addressed, Saphadim answered directly : 

“ The prophet would say that such a man purchased 
pleasure in this life at the expense of the fires of Eblis 
in the next.” 


[309] 


310 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


Stephen pointed to the dead body of Big- Peter, con- 
tinuing : 

“ Thou hast said, unbeliever. And now I will answer 
thee as becomes a Christian gentleman. There lies the 
body of my foster-brother, who took no cross, but fol- 
lowed me for the love of me. He lies dead on thy deck, 
and I was the cause of his death and the captivity of 
all these poor children round us. I came hither against 
the counsel of my father ; spite of my mother’s tears. My 
sister is in thy power, and but for me she would not be 
here. Take me ; punish me as long and as heavily as 
thou wilt. Nothing can be worse than my deserts. 
But I charge thee that thou send her away, and with 
her that old man who led us hither. She has asked 
for my freedom. I refuse it. I refuse to let her share 
my captivity, and I ask that she be permitted to go 
hence, with this old man, and beg a ransom from all 
Christians for these children who have been led into 
misery. As for myself, I will take no freedom as long 
as there is one of these who followed me in bonds. 
Chain me to an oar at once and let us end this matter 
as it should end. I was the leader ; I should be the 
chief sufferer.” 

He spoke earnestly, but without enthusiasm, in a 
low, clear tone, with his eyes fixed on those of the 
young Turk, who seemed to be struck, for the first 
time in their interview, with a sense of respect for his 
prisoner. 

Saphadim nodded slowly and said in answer : 

“That is the way our prophet would have judged the 
matter. If thou wert a true believer, I might think 
well of thee. But thy words are wise and shall be 
performed.” 

Then, turning to the old monk, who had been 
crouched in the stern of the galley during the whole 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


311 


scene, as if blind and deaf to all that was passing, he 
continued loudly : 

“ What, ho, there ! Awake and hear what we have 
decided for thee !” 

Old Hildebrand turned slowly round and demanded 
faintly : 

“ Who calls a poor lost soul ?” 

Saphadim stared at him with some surprise, as the 
old man spoke ; but, with the respect for age which all 
Moslems show, he told him what had been agreed on. 

“ Thanks to this lady, thou art to be set free, to go 
with her to the cities and castles of the Franks and 
beg a ransom for these fools, whom thou hast led away 
to destruction. Art thou willing to go with her, and 
beg for them ?” 

Old Hildebrand listened quietly, and then rose to 
his feet with difficulty and tottered forward to where 
Stephen was standing by his sister. There the old man 
stopped and eyed the boy fixedly. He seemed to be 
unable to speak for a little, but at last said : 

“ Ay, it is the same bright, young face that I saw in 
the market-place of Vaucluse. So young and so bright ! 
It seemed as if a voice from heaven called to me : 
* There is the leader that will take the children to the 
Sepulcher of the Lord.’ And yet I was in error. It 
was the voice of an evil spirit, and it has led them all 
to slavery and worse than death. Oh, my Lord 
Stephen, why did they not kill me and not leave me to 
see what has come to thee and all the tender little ones ?” 

Saphadim interrupted him impatiently, saying : 

“ Enough of this. Thou shouldst have thought of all 
that ere thou didst lead away these children. Allah 
has permitted thee to live, to see the consequences of 
false prophecy. Wilt thou go and beg a ransom for 
these prisoners ?” 


312 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


The old monk raised his hands to his forehead, with 
a wistful look at the children round him. He seemed 
to be distraught with the woe that had come on him. 

Blanche, seeing his inability to comprehend the 
question clearly, came to his side and took his hand, 
saying gently ; 

“ Holy father, it is 1. They will not let me buy my 
brother’s freedom, but they have consented that thou 
and I shall depart to France to beg a ransom for these 
poor children. Wilt thou go with me ?” 

Hildebrand shook his head slowly. 

“ It is impossible,” he said, with a dreary look in his 
eyes. “ How shall I face them all, and what shall I say 
when the mothers ask me for their children ? Child, 
child, I am accursed forever, and my portion for eter- 
nity shall be to look on those I doomed to death. And 
yet I was so sure I was right ! It seemed as if a voice 
from heaven led me on, when I was preaching, and 
that these pure young hearts must deserve a miracle, 
to crown their efforts. And now it is only left to me to 
die.” 

The girl took him by the arm and looked in his face 
saying : 

“Father Hildebrand, art thou sure thou art not as 
wrong now as when my mother pled to thee to let her 
only son go 

The monk shuddered at her words and exclaimed 
brokenly : 

“ In mercy let me forget that ! Child, child, dost 
thou wish to torture me before my time ?” 

“ Canst thou escape the memory ?" asked Blanche, in 
the same quiet way, not permitting him to evade her 
eyes, from which he shrank with a shame that even 
the callous Turks noticed and pitied. 

Then, as he did not answer, she went on : 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


313 


“ Whether is it better, to make amends or to shrink 
from punishment ?” 

Thus urged, the old monk could but answer, faintly : 

“ To make amends, daughter. But that is not pos- 
sible now.” 

“ And whether,” continued the girl in the same 
solemn way, “ is it better to fall into the hands of man 
or into those of God ?” 

This time the old man shuddered violently, and cast 
an instinctive glance upward, as he realized the mean- 
ing of her question. She saw the effect of her words, 
and without insisting on an answer said : 

“We all have our punishment to bear. My brother 
will bear his, and I mine. I, too, left my mother with- 
out her leave. It is fit that I should meet her and bear 
her reproaches. Thou must either bear thy punish- 
ment now or hereafter. Come with me, and we will 
weary the ear of France with our prayers for help and 
mercy for these children who have been led astray. 
When the last shall have been ransomed, we can say : 
‘ We are but unprofitable servants. We have done that 
which was our duty to do.’ Wilt thou come with me f” 

While she was speaking, the old monk seemed to be 
gradually taking in her meaning, for he began to trem- 
ble, as if oppressed with a fear almost too great to bear. 

When she l\ad finished, he faltered, brokenly : 

“ Child, child, anything btit that ! Let them make me 
a slave ; let them torture me to death ; let them rack 
these old bones with pain and burn me slowly ; but not 
that, 7iot that 

Saphadim had listened to the colloquy between the 
two with a silence and attention that were remarkable 
for one of a different faith in those days of intolerance 
and bigotry. Now he came forward and laid his hand 
on the old man’s shoulder, saying : 


314 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


“ Father, thy head is white, and the prophet hath 
said : ‘ Let the old be held in honor by the young.’ 
But if the pfophet himself were here to judge this 
thing, he would say to thee : ‘ To every man is given 
his punishment, and he that rebelleth, rebelleth against 
God.’ Go with the child and beg the ransoms for the 
other children. For every one shall be paid ten pieces 
of gold ; and the leader shall be redeemed last of all. 
I have spoken. Go, and remember that but for this 
girl, and the mercy she showed to me, thou wouldst 
not be given even this chance. I have spoken.” 

And he turned away, leaving the old monk still 
trembling, but not daring to make any further objec- 
tion to his task. 

The fleet of the Turks was turned about toward the 
coast of France, the captured ships of burden, that had 
contained the most of the boy crusaders, being sent 
away to the east, while the galleys hovered in a long 
line, with broad intervals between their prizes and any 
strange vessels that might be sent out to rescue the 
children. When they were almost out of sight, Dra- 
gut, in his stately ship, headed a squadron of twenty 
galleys and sailed for the port of Marseilles, in sight of 
which he arrived during the night, being warned of 
his vicinity by the lights on the coast, and lying by for 
the period of darkness till the rising sun showed the 
city of Marseilles before them. 

Then a galley with a white flag was sent forward, 
having the hermit and Blanche on board, and rowed 
into the harbor amid a great scene of excitement on 
the part of the citizens. 

At first it was thought that the Turks meditated a 
descent on the town, and the bells were rung from the 
church-steeples, while the citizens ran to arms in haste. 

When it was perceived that only one vessel was com- 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


315 


ing to the harbor, the alarm was somewhat moderated ; 
but a galley belonging to the military order of the 
Knights of St. John, which was the only armed craft in 
the harbor, began to get ready for sea, with the idea of 
danger, till the form of the hermit was seen on the high 
prow of the Turkish galley and recognized at once. 

Then all sorts of rumors flew about the town, but by 
the time the galley reached the water-stairs and sent 
the hermit and the girl on shore in a boat, people had 
realized the truth. They had seen the departure of the 
Children’s Crusade, two days before, with the singing 
of hymns, and now they saw its leader returning a pris- 
oner to the Turks. 

When the hermit and his youthful companion had 
been set on shore, with them came a formal letter from 
the Turkish admiral, Dragut Aga, in which he stated 
the terms on which alone he would release the Chris- 
tian children that had fallen into his hands. 

He demanded for each child a ransom of ten pieces 
of gold, of the coinage then called “ ducats,” from the 
legend stamped on them, which ended in the word 
“ ducato^' meaning “ duchy,” they having been coined 
first in the duchy of Palermo, in Sicily. The value of 
the ducat in those times was about two dollars and a 
half of our money in gold ; but as the price of gold was 
just three times what it is now, the ransom demanded 
for each child was about seventy-five dollars, as it 
would be counted in our times. 

This seems a small sum, but in those days, when 
money was very scarce, it was heavy enough. 

The reading of the admiral’s letter, with the news of 
the captivity of the children, created such a scene of 
weeping and wailing as had never been seen in Mar- 
seilles since the times of the first crusade, when Peter 
the Hermit had preached the woes of the pilgrims. 


31G 


THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE. 


Poor Father Hildebrand, the cause of all, was over- 
whelmed with the reproaches of fathers and mothers 
demanding their children, and began his penance, as he 
had dreaded, with the first step he took on French soil. 

But for the help of his brave little companion, who 
showed the same courage in supporting her aged friend 
which she had once shown in confronting him when he 
was thundering out his texts, it is probable that the old 
man would have broken down and died of grief in Mar- 
seilles ere he had taken a step beyond it. 

But Blanche de Vaux, with a constancy that never 
failed her, took him with her wherever she went, and 
so worked on the people with her sweet face and gentle 
ways that they began to give liberally for the ransom 
of those children whose parents Avere too poor to buy 
them back. 

The richer nobles, indeed, whose boys had gone with 
the Children’s Crusade, were only too eager to pay their 
money and get back the captives at once ; but Dragut 
and Prince Saphadim had foreseen the necessity, if they 
hoped to have any considerable number of the captives 
ransomed, that the poor should take their chance along 
with the rich. He had arranged that, as fast as the 
money was paid, it should be sent out in a vessel to sea, 
promising that he would send in prisoners, to be se- 
lected by lot, answering to the money sent. But no 
Christian was to be allowed to visit the captives, and 
he gave solemn warning that, if any rescue were at- 
tempted, the ransoms would cease at once, and all the 
children sold into slavery in the far East, where they 
would never see their homes again. 

Those who were ransomed should be taken by lot, 
and in no other way, save that the leader of the cru- 
sade, Count Stephen de Vaux, was to be held till the 
last captive had gone home, 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


317 


At first the money was slow to come ; for the parents, 
in Marseilles being chiefly merchants, thought the risk 
of their own children being passed over in the lots too 
great to permit them to risk their money. 

But, thanks to the unwearied efforts of Blanche and 
the pathetic appeals of old Father Hildebrand to his 
hearers, to “ save souls from death and ransom the cap- 
tives,” within a week a thousand ducats had been 
raised, and the galley of the Knights of St. John, which 
had been held in waiting for fear of the Turks, was 
sent out with a flag of truce, and found one of Dragut’s 
galleys near Corsica, in a place which had been named 
in the letter. 

The thousand ducats were paid over to the Turkish 
officer, who had been deputed to receive them ; and 
the Turk, on his part, performed his promise faithfully, 
by turning over to the galley of the Christians a hun- 
dred captives, of whom, as it happened, no less than 
forty-five belonged to Marseilles, while the rest came 
from other parts of France. 

Their arrival caused a deal of joy ; and then, for the 
first time, the old hermit, who had hitherto been bowed 
down with sorrow and incapable of entertaining hope, 
began to regain his courage and plan another tour of 
preaching ; but this time on an errand of mercy, and 
not of blood. 

He organized the returned children into a band with 
which he passed through the whole south of France 
till they neared Vaucluse, rousing the people every- 
where by the news he brought, and using such of the 
returned captives as would follow him, to paint, in 
true colors, the condition of the children who had been 
left behind. 

In this way he reached a good many more people ; 
^nd, by the end of the second week after the first ar- 


318 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


rival of captives, no less than ten thousand ducats had 
been raised in contributions from the faithful, for the 
release of others. 

And then it was that, as they approached Vaucluse, 
near which was the castle of Vaux, that Blanche, who 
had hitherto been the bravest of all, began to droop 
and exhibit fear of facing her own parents with the 
news of Stephen’s sad fate. 

And then the old hermit, who had hitherto been the 
one who had needed consolation, turned consoler in 
her need, and announced that he, as the one who had 
persuaded Stephen against his will to join the crusade, 
was the one who should bear the penalty of informing 
his father and his mother that their son had been taken 
captive and was a slave to the Turks. 

And thus, on a fine summer evening, six weeks after 
Stephen had listened to the preaching of Hildebrand in 
the market-place of Vaucluse, Blanche and the hermit 
drew near the castle as beggars and pilgrims. 



CHAPTER IX. 


CONCLUSION. 

As the hermit and his young companion approached 
the castle the girl seemed oppressed with some fear 
that she could hardly explain to herself. There was a 
solitude and quiet reigning round her home to which 
it had been a stranger in the days she remembered so 
well. 

The little village that clustered beneath the walls of 
the great donjon seemed to be deserted by most of its 
occupants, though the hour of sunset generally brought 
them all back from the fields. 

As they drew near the castle itself, they were sur- 
prised to see that the gate was wide open, the draw- 
bridge down ; while the porter, who usually dozed on 
his bench by the entrance, was not to be seen. 

Then, as they came fully in sight, Blanche uttered a 
cry of alarm and grief combined, as she clutched the 
arm of her aged companion and pointed to the tower, at 

r3i9] 


320 


THE CHILDRE^.ys CRUSADE. 


the summit of the castle, from which floated the ban- 
ner of the old count at half-mast . 

Even in those days the signal of death was well 
understood, and the girl faltered and hesitated as she 
gasped : 

“ Some one is dead ! Oh, heaven, if it should be my 
mother !” 

Old Hildebrand bowed his head gloomily. 

“ We are all in the hands of Heaven, my child,” he 
said. “ Let us go in and inquire.” 

They slowly advanced toward the gate of the castle, 
but, ere they could enter the court, heard the solemn 
tolling of the chapel-bell, and beheld a funeral proces- 
sion coming forth from the gate, the mourners bearing 
the bier on their shoulders, preceded by a horse led by 
a groom on foot and bearing the armor of a knight. 

Blanche had sunk on her knees at the sight and 
watched the procession like one petrified, as it came 
slowly by her. Then she knew that it was not her 
mother that had died, but a flood of almost equal sor- 
row rushed over her as she recognized her father’s 
favorite charger in the animal at the head of the cortdge. 

Her father had died ; and before the procession had 
fully passed, followed by all the vassals of the estate on 
foot, she beheld a black-robed figure, between two of 
her mother’s ladies, and knew it was the widowed 
countess, following the body of her husband to the 
grave. 

She drew back out of sight, with the old hermit, who 
seemed to be overcome once more with the shame and 
humiliation that had overwhelmed him when he first 
landed at Marseilles and heard the mothers calling for 
their children. Neither he nor Blanche dared to go 
forward, where they might be recognized, till the 
funeral was over, but followed the mourners silently 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


321 


and unobtrusively till the body of the old count had 
been laid to rest beneath the walls of his castle. 

Blanche quickly noticed, among the mourners, a tall, 
stern-looking knight, with a haughty, disagreeable 
manner, and recognized the cousin, who was next in 
succession, and whom she knew her mother had always 
feared and disliked. It had come to this, that, in con- 
sequence of the mad crusade of the children, the castle 
of her father had fallen to a stranger, and that her 
mother was liable to be turned out into the cold world 
as soon as the funeral was over. 

Poor Blanche knew well enough that, by the famous 
“ Salic Law,” neither she nor her mother could inherit 
the lands of which her brother Stephen was the right- 
ful heir ; but she knew also that, till Stephen was dead, 
they could resist the possession by their cousin, Gaston 
de Vaux, of the lands and castle. 

Thus it became necessary for her to declare herself 
and tell the expectant heir that the Stephen he evi- 
dently thought dead, or as good as dead, was alive and 
would come back. 

She had not long to wait, as the procession broke up ; 
for her mother, turning toward home, caught sight of 
her ; and in a moment there was a scene of confusion 
and excitement, as the poor widow, who had thought 
herself childless, rushed to her daughter and clasped 
her to her breast, weeping, chiding, blessing and pro- 
testing, all in a breath, while she overwhelmed her with 
questions, the while that the expectant heir stood by, 
scowling at the girl he knew well, and meditating what 
to do to secure the inheritance he was determined not 
to lose. 

But even in those days, which we call “ barbarous,” 
there was some decency of public opinion ; and Gaston 
de Vaux did not dare to turn the widow and orphan out 


322 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


of the home they had so long occupied without a show 
of justice. 

He pretended polite interest in both, accompanied 
them to the castle, inquired of Blanche what news she 
brought of the Children’s Crusade, and lamented the 
fate which had taken the count from his domains “in 
the prime of his life,” as he said. 

Then Blanche heard from her mother how her 
father had died, and shuddered as she thought that, 
but for that wretched crusade, he might have been 
spared many a long year. It seemed that the count, 
after his return home and the discovery that both his 
children had deserted him, as he thought, had become 
morose and solitary in his habits, taking his only en- 
joyment, or rather his only consolation, under his 
affliction, by trying to drown his sorrows in drink. 

He, who had been the most temperate of men, like 
most people in southern countries, had become, in the 
short interval between the departure of his son and the 
return of his daughter to the castle, a furious drunkard, 
who never stopped in his potations till he had become 
insensible to everything round him. 

In one of these orgies, when he had been surrounded 
by his men-at-arms, who were drinking with him and 
his cousin, Gaston de Vaux, the old count had been 
drawn into an angry controversy about the crusade in 
which his son had embarked, had drawn his sword and 
tried to kill his cousin. Being disarmed by his men, 
who saw that he was no longer conscious of what he 
w^as doing, he flew into such a furious passion that he 
had burst a blood-vessel in his head and had fallen 
dead, almost in an instant, the day before Blanche ar- 
rived at the castle, his funeral having been hurried on 
by the expectant heir. 

And after the story had been told, and the question 


THE CHILDREN S CRUSADE. 


323 


remained : What should be done to ransom the young 
heir of the castle ? Gaston was the person who dis- 
played the most anxiety to be allowed to help in raising 
the ransom. 

He insisted on remaining in the castle, “ to protect 
his cousins in their inheritance against the possible 
assaults of the robbers who sometimes came even into 
Provence.” 

The poor women, glad of any protection, and begin- 
ning to think that they had misjudged the character of 
their cousin, consented to this scheme, and the result 
was that Gaston de Vaux brought to the castle quite a 
number of his own men-at-arms, whom he quartered in 
the room of the old De Vaux retainers, and gradually 
introduced, till the whole garrison was devoted to him. 

Then, when Blanche and her mother were away at 
Vaucluse and among the neighboring counts trying to 
raise the sum that had been stipulated as the ransom, 
without which the boy count could not be allowed to 
return to his home, .Gaston threw off the mask and 
seized the castle of Vaux, declaring himself the count, 
and proclaiming that his cousin Stephen had been slain 
by the Turks, which most people believed on the word 
of a rich man like Gaston. 

As soon as he had accomplished his purpose, the new 
count, abandoning the pretense of affection for his 
cousins that he had kept up till he gained possession of 
the castle and lands of Vaux, turned them out of the 
home they had enjoyed so long, and coolly bade them, 
if they wanted to get back, to make a pilgrimage to 
Jerusalem and beg the freedom of Stephen from the 
Grand Turk, if they still dreamed that he was alive. 

Thus, at one stroke, the poor countess found herself 
deprived of home, husband and son, and reduced to 
beggary in her age, for in those times there were no 


324 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


such things as “ settlements ” in France, and the reign 
of law was precarious in the midst of the various civil 
wars and quarrels between barons and counts. 

But for the courage of Blanche, whom nothing 
seemed to terrify, the countess would have sunk under 
her misfortunes. As it was, with the assistance of her 
daughter and Father Hildebrand, who seemed to be 
roused out of his apathy as soon as there was a chance 
to work for the good of others, she secured a shelter in 
a convent, of which the lady abbess was a relative of 
the dead count, while Blanche and the hermit continued 
their efforts through the country, to secure the ransom 
of the captives. 

They travelled far and wide through France, their 
sad story attracting sympathy wherever they went ; 
but as time passed on and the fate of the children grew 
more distant, the collections became more and more 
scant}^, till they ceased altogether. Three thousand of 
the children had been ransomed, and news came that 
the Turkish prince was weary of the delays, and had 
determined to sell the rest of his captives in the market 
in Egypt, without waiting for any more money from 
France. 

Sold they were, all but Stephen, the boys to be 
turned into mamelukes, who were Christian slaves 
compelled to profess the faith of the prophet Moham- 
med, and trained as enemies of the very faith for which 
they had madly taken the cross. 

Of poor Stephen nothing was heard, and as time 
went on, Hildebrand sank under the weight of his years 
and the remorse to which he had been subject ever 
since the failure of the crusade. 

Then poor Blanche was left alone in the world, and 
with the firm determination which had always distin- 
guished her character, resolved that she would find her 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


325 


brother, alive or dead, if she had to go to Jerusalem on 
foot. 

In those wild days, with all their lack of what we 
call “ civilization,” there was one advantage possessed 
by the poorest : The garb of a pilgrim to Jerusalem, 
consisting of a brown woolen robe, with a broad hat, in 
which was stuck a scallop-shell, enabled the wearer to 
travel safely in every Christian country without any 
money, for it was counted a shame to refuse alms to a 
pilgrim. 

Blanche deVaux, after visiting her mother at the 
convent, took the pilgrim’s staff and made her way on 
foot through Italy to Venice, and thence across the 
whole of what are now Servia and Bulgaria, to the 
city of Constantinople, that had been in the possession 
of the Greek Emperor Comnenus till the year 1204, 
when the crusaders, under Baldwin, Count of Flanders, 
instead^ of fighting the Turks they had sworn to drive 
from the Holy City, had turned out their fellow-Chris- 
tian, Comnenus, and set up the Latin empire of Bald- 
win in his stead. 

It had been an act of the most bare-faced robbery, 
but it ,had this advantage for poor Blanche that it en- 
abled her to travel as far as the Hellespont in a nomi- 
nally Christian country, where pilgrims were protected 
and welcomed. 

From Constantinople she was put across the Bos- 
porus in a boat, by charity, and then began the real 
perils and hardships of her journey, as she toiled on, 
on foot, through the country of the Turks she had been 
accustomed to think of as “ cruel infidels and wild 
beasts,” determined to suffer anything, so long as she 
found her brother Stephen. She had one hope in 
using the name of Prince Saphadim, whose gratitude 
she remembered well, and whom, she told the Turks 


326 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


she met, she was going to see. This name she soon 
found to be a tower of strength ; for Saphadim, it 
seemed, had been made sultan, and any person going’ 
to see him was sure of protection on the journey. 

It took the poor girl a long time to reach Jerusalem, 
for she had to walk every step of the way, as she had 
done from France, and was frequently stopped, and 
sometimes carried off, for a time, by the numerous rob- 
bers who infested the Turkish territory, who would 
keep her a prisoner awhile, but always released her at 
last, when they had sent to some place, of which she 
was ignorant, to ascertain if her name was known to 
the Turkish sultan. 

In every instance the message came back that “ the 
woman was to be allowed to depart in peace,” though 
no help was extended to her. It seemed strange to her 
that robbers should have such a respect for the name 
of the sultan, but she found out at last that what she 
thought common robbers were merely chieftains, like 
the barons in France, who claimed sovereignty over 
certain spots and the right of levying tribute on all the 
pilgrims that came in their way. And as the poor girl 
could not pay for her release, she would have been sold 
for a slave many a time but for the potent spell of the 
name of Sultan Saphadim. 

At last, nearly four years after the ill-starred enter- 
prise of the Children’s Crusade, Blanche de Vaux 
reached Jerusalem, and boldly demanded an audience 
of the sultan. She was admitted to his presence at 
once, with the simplicity characteristic of the Moslem 
of that day when he became a sovereign. Saphadim 
the Turk, mindful of the precepts of the Koran, though 
not a Christian, showed the poor pilgrim a kindness no 
Christian had yet exhibited to her. 

At first he hardly recognized, in the emaciated, sun- 


THE children’s CRUSADE. 


327 


burned woman who came, the slender, beautiful girl 
who had saved him when a slave from the lash of the 
cruel crusader ; but as soon as she spoke and reminded 
him who she was, the haughty young prince melted 
into tears at the pathetic story of her sufferings, and 
told her she should have any gift she asked for. 

Blanche pleaded only for the freedom of her brother, 
and Saphadim sent for him at once, and restored to the 
arms of his sister Stephen, the once brilliant young boy 
count of Vaucluse, now a haggard, dark, emaciated 
slave, who had been toiling on the fortifications of 
Jerusalem, digging wells, carrying heavy blocks of 
stone for the masons, driven to his work under the 
lash day after day till all the fire and impetuosity of 
his boyhood had been knocked out of him, and the 
young man of only twenty-two looked like one of forty. 

He had almost forgotten, in his misery, the face of 
his sister, and when she spoke to him could hardly be- 
lieve her story. 

But at last they were sent away by the generous Sul- 
tan Saphadim, clothed at his expense, and supplied 
with money, in a ship which was about to sail for Italy. 
They departed, and were landed safely at Naples, 
whence they proceeded to France, still in the guise of 
pilgrims, as the safest dress in the disturbed state of 
the country, where Christians were fighting one another 
as fiercely as ever. 

As Stephen advanced through the midst of more 
familiar scenes, he gradually regained the balance of 
his mind, which had been almost fatally disturbed dur- 
ing his slavery, by the influence of the remorse that 
had preyed on him, at the sight of his companions 
dying by scores under the hardships which they might 
never have had to suffer had he not led them on that 
terrible Children’s Crusade. When he entered Provence 


THE children's CRUSADE. 


3;:i8 

and neared his father's castle, he was much affected ; 
but took his measures effectually to get back his in- 
heritance. He found it necessary to challenge the 
villain Gaston to the “trial by combat,'' which was 
then a legal way of deciding an issue at law ; over- 
threw him, and finally regained his inheritance. 

There we might end his story, but for the question 
that occurs to us — How about the moral that lies hidden 
in it ? 

Let Stephen himself give it, in his words, in the old 
chronicle, from which these facts have been gleaned. 

“ I hold to this," he says, in the quaint old Provencal, 
which we are obliged to translate for our modern 
readers, “ that the empty tomb of Christ, though a de- 
sirable thing, is not worth the spilling of one d<rop of 
blood. And I hold, further, that a woman, in her love, 
will go farther than a man in his valor ; and that the 
same God is worshiped by Turk and Christian ; so that 
the man who fights for his religion fights against his 
God." 


THE END. 


A German Detective Novel. 


THE TELL-TALE WATCH 

(Der Lebende hat Recht.) 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

GEORGE HOOKER 

BY 

META DE VERE. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAQ AN. 

12mo. 360 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This story is based upon a thrilling tragedy in real life, which 
created a sensation in Germany, and which in the form of a novel 
is equally thrilling artd interesting. German novels are usually 
quiet and domestic, and while interesting and charming, are sel- 
dom exciting or dramatic. The Tell-Tale Watch ” is both, and 
will satisfy the taste for a mystery which, in the beginning, seems 
almost unfathomable. It is a strange story with an original plot, 
and one which will cause difference of opinion, as the sympathy 
of the reader is excited in favor of one character or another. It 
is not a story which any one who reads will consider dull. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An American NoveL 


HETTY, OR THE OLD GRUDGE 

BY 

J. H. CONNELLY. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY K WHITNEY, 

12zno. 800 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00* 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is a careful study of life and experience in a primitive 
American village. The characters are simple, strong and adven- 
turous. When moved by strong passion,*they act with a force 
and directness impossible to people bred in the complex circum- 
stances and influences of the conventional life and society of 
cities. There are sweetness and charm in the portraiture of this 
heroine of the woods and fields. The exciting incidents which 
mark the progress and climax of the story -only serve to empha- 
size the beauty and truth which the author has wrought into the 
substance of her character. Mr. Connelly is one of our most con- 
scientious American writers and one who is destined to enjoy 
fame and popularity. Nothing weak or disappointing ever comes 
from his pen, and we can recommend his work to all who wish to 
read an excellent novel. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Exquisite Novel 


APPASSIONATA. 


A MUSICIAN’S STORY. 


BY 


ELSA D’ESTERRE-KEELING, 

Atithor of ^‘In Thoughtland a7id Dreamland y' etc.y etc, 

WITH ILL TJ8TRA TION8 BY JAME8 FAQ AN. 

12mo. 280 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.26. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


“ Appassionata ” is the story of a girl endowed with extraordi- 
nary genius and a passion for music. Her history is most roman- 
tic and interesting. Her love and her genius lead to strange 
situations. The novel is one which will interest all lovers of 
music, as they will appreciate the difficulties and emotions which 
sway the heroine. The illustrations of this novel by Mr. Fagan 
are extremely good, and the book is daintily bound. It is one of 
the prettiest books of the season. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An American Society Novel. 


GIRLS OF A FEATHER. 

BY 

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR, 

Author of Beads of Tasmerf ^^The Mate of the ^Easter 

Belly''' Friend Olivia f ^^The Household of 
McNeily" Sister to EsaUy" etc, 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MEREDITH NUOENT. 

12mo. 366 pag«s. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Nothing could be more timely, nothing could be more charm- 
ing, than this exquisite book. A society novel by Mrs. Barr will 
excite widespread interest and curiosity. Girls of a Feather 
has the freshness of a May morning in its atmosphere and the 
form and color of June in its beautiful pictures of womanhood. It 
is a delightful successor to ‘‘The Bow of Orange Ribbon,” and 
readers will find in it a lightness of touch and maturity of power 
which show the progress made by the author in the highest quali- 
ties of literary form. Her new work is distinctly an advance upon 
anything which she has ever done before, and will rank with the 
best literature of the period. Large, new type is used, and the 
appearance of the book is very attractive. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Mrs. Southworth’s Best Novels. 


ONLY A GIRL’S HEART, 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 

Being “Only a Girl’s Heart,” Second Series. 


GERTRUDE HADDON, 

Being “ Only a Girl’s Heart,” Third Series. 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 


ALL THREE ILLUSTRATED BY HUGH M. EATON. 

12mo. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00 each. Paper 
Cover, 60 Cents. 


The three novels above named are all connected by a thread 
of story and deal with the same characters. The series reads 
continuously and is essentially one novel, although each book 
forms more or less a distinct narrative. The interest of the first 
novel is carried forward with increasing power until the close of 
the third. Few authors, living or dead, have swayed so wide an 
influence or held readers with a more sovereign power than this 
delightful novelist. Many readers are gratified to meet their old 
acquaintances in the successive books of a favorite author. F. ‘ 
Marion Crawford owes a great deal of his popularity to the 
Roman family of the Saracinesca, whose fortunes in succeeding 
generations are told in his novels. So this series by Mrs. South- 
worth will furnish a whole winter’s reading to her admirers, and 
all about the same people. The illustrations of these novels add 
very much to their beauty and interest. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


A New Novel by the Author of “ A Priestess 
of Comedy.” 


COUNTESS DYNAR; 

OR, 

POLISH BLOOD. 


BY 


NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH, 

Author of A Priestess of Comedy A Princess of the Stage f 

etc. 


WITH JLLU8TBATI0N8 BY JAME8 FAG AH. 


12mo. 867 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Oloth. Price, $1.26. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Nataly von Eschstruth’s novels are full of romantic sentiment 
that takes one completely out of the ordinary atmosphere and 
situations of common life. There are a swing to her style, a con- 
tagious enthusiasm and extravagance in her descriptions and a 
freshness in the emotions and passions of her characters, which 
command the attention, excite the feelings and absorb the in- 
terest of every reader. All who have read the ‘^ Priestess of 
Comedy” will appreciate the truth of what we say. ‘^Countess 
Dynar ” is a book of most unusual beauty. The illustrations are 
admirably illustrative of the scenes and characters. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Interesting Novel 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


31 Notjcl. 


PAUL H. GERRARD. 


ILLUSTRATED BY WARREE B. DATZB. 


ISmow 814 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


** A Sleep-Walker ” is a novel of incident. As the title indicates, 
complications arise from the doings of a fair somnambulist. In 
the opening a mysterious woman is discovered in the act of throw- 
ing a child into a reservoir. The fate of the child and the iden- 
tity of the woman are matters upon which the plot of the story 
turns. Much is involved, and a large number of persons inter- 
ested, and a series of events transpire, all of which go to form a 
dramatic story ot most sensational interest. The story is pub- 
lished simultaneously in England and this country and is well 
calculated to please readers in both countries. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York^ 


A New Novel by E. Werner, 


A Lover From Across the Sea. 


BY 

E. WERNER. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY 

MARY J. SAFFORD. 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY VICTOR PERARD AND H. M. EATON. 


12mo. 800 Fa«res. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


E. Werner is the author of more popular novels than any 
other German writer. She has set the key for a good many of 
her sisters, who have made the German domestic love-story one 
of the most agreeable and familiar to American readers. These 
stories are always pure, interesting and popular. “A Lover 
from Across the Sea ” is a fresh story, never before translated, 
and better adapted for republication here than any German novel 
which we can recall. It is one of the author’s shorter novels, and 
the volume is enlarged by the addition of another new story by 
E. Werner, entitled In the Hands of the Enemy,” of the same 
general character and equally interesting. The illustrations of 
these stories add very much to the value and beauty of the book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Novel by the Author of “A Priestess 
of Comedy.” 


A PRINCESS OF THE STAGE. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH, 

Author of *‘A Priestess of Comedy f Countess Dynarf etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRA TI0N8 BY JAMES FAGAN, 


12mo. 300 Pag^s. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


In this story the author gives us both tragedy and comedy. 
The romantic love affair of the chamberlain of the czar excites 
the most thrilling interest, involving as it does such tragic con- 
sequences. There is a delightfully amusing side to the story in 
the love affair of Lena’s sister, and that of her hoydenish, noisy 
little country cousin and a young dandy. The character of the 
prince is exceedingly well drawn, and the transformation of the 
hoyden into a refined and elegant young lady is most charming. 
Nothing that has been published from the pen of the Baroness 
von Eschstruth is better than this story. The illustrations by Mr. 
Fagan are excellent. The book is beautifully bound in cloth as 
well as in paper covers. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

CQR. William and Sp^ycR Streets, New York. 


Julien Gordon^s Novel from the German. 


COUNTESS OBERNAU. 

AFTER THE GERMAN 
BY 

JULIEN GORDON, 

Author of Diplomat's Diary f etc., etc, 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAQ AN. 


12mo. 281 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Julien Gordon’s novels possess superb studies of character and 
fresh and unhackneyed incidents — merits which have rendered 
them popular. These qualities will also be found in ‘^Countess 
Obernau,” which she has adapted from the German, and which’ 
is quite equal to any of her books. Countess Obernau is a woman 
who possesses a rare charm of individuality. She has refinement 
and exquisite sensibilities joined to an artistic temperament. 
There is a mystery in her life, and her independent character and 
Bohemian tendencies invest all her movements with interest to 
curious observers. The charm of her individuality fascinates all, 
and at least two are ready to die for her. The interest of the 
novel is all centered in this character. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A War Novel. 


THE GUN-BEARER. 


BY 

EDWARD A. ROBINSON 

AND 

GEORGE A. WALL, 

Authors of ^^The Diskf etc* 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES FAG A N, 


12xaa 276 Pagres. Handsomely Botmd in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Pai>er Cover, 60 Cents. 


A new and thrilling war novel of intense interest, narrating 
the experiences of a private soldier whose regiment joins Sher- 
man’s army at Buzzard’s Roost, and shares the fortunes of that 
army, participating in all the engagements up to the fall of At- 
lanta. Thence with General Schofield’s command, pursued by 
General Hood into Tennessee, contesting the ground foot by 
foot, the regiment finally joins General Thomas at Nashville. 
The story culminates with the desperate battle of Franklin, 
where General Schofield, with ten thousand men, wrestled with 
General Flood and three times as many Confederates. Vivid 
descriptions of soldier life in camp, on the march, in bivouac, on 
picket, in skirmish and in battle, sustain the interest and hold 
the reader’s attention to the end. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


A Fresh Novel From the German* 


WOOING A WIDOW. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

EWALD AUGUST KOENIG. 

BY 

MARY A. ROBINSON, 

Translator o/ ** A Child of the Parish f etc* 


WITS JLUaTSATIOm BY JAMES FAQ AS, 


12mo. 880 Pagrea. Handsomely Botind in Cloth. Price, $1.26, 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Koenig is one of the most popular novelists of Germany, and 
‘‘Wooing a Widow” is his best work. The widow in the story 
has more than one wooer, and there is great uncertainty as to the 
one ultimately to win and wed her. It is an exciting story, with 
a succession of interesting incidents in the working-out of an ex- 
cellent plot. It is rare that we find a story from the German so 
well planned and so delightfully carried out. It can be read at 
one sitting without any feeling of fatigue, as the story is inter- 
esting from beginning to end. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

CQRt William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Attractive Novel. 


HER LITTLE HIGHNESS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 

NATALY VON ESCHSTRUTH, 

Author of A Priestess of Comedy f ‘‘ Countess Dynarf 
A Princess of the Stage f etc.., etc. 

BY 

ELISE L. LATHROR 


WITH IL U8TBA TIONS BY JAMES FAG A H. 

12ino. 303 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.26. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Her Little Highness” is Baroness Eschstruth’s latest book 
and one of the most charming novels that has come from her 
pen. The little princess, who is the heroine of the story, is the 
heir of a ducul throne, which in Germany makes her a being apart 
from the rest of the world, which tends to heighten the piquancy of 
a being so very human and so very natural. Her little highness is a 
little woman from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and her 
love of Valleral, a gay and frolicsome courtier, is the most natural 
thing in the world. However unsuitable for the husband of a 
princess Valleral may be, the reader of the novel will enjoy the 
situation that the love affair creates. Valleral is a widower, with 
a son almost as old as the princess, and as sober as the father is 
frivolous. The little princess’s fate is bound up with these two, 
and we could not detail all the complications in their relations 
without depriving the reader of the pleasure of following out for 
himself a most interesting love story. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor, William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


An Original Stdry of Adventure. 


IN THE CHINA SEA. 


BT 

SEWARD W. HOPKINS, 

Author of Two Gentlemen of Hawaii,^* etc.^ etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BV PBUSTT SHABN AND Jf. BATON 

12iuo. 800 Pagrea. Handsom^ Bound In Cloth* Ihioe, $1.00. 
Pamper Cover, 50 Cents* 


“ In the China Sea” is a story of the Pacific Coast, where the 
almond-eyed Mongolians have a quarter in every city, whence 
they communicate with their kindred of the Flowery Kingdom 
across the seas. The story deals with the disappearance of a 
beautiful girl, who is traced to Portland, Oregon, where she is 
embarked on a steamer bound for China. There is an exciting 
pursuit and search for this beautiful girl. The extraodinary 
things which happen, the sights and people met with and de- 
scribed, in detailing this pursuit and search, render this story one 
of the most interesting and exciting productions of modern fiction. 
It will rank with King Solomon’s Mines” and Jules Verne’s 
wonderful narrations. An unknown people of strange customs, 
manners and appearance is introduced. A great war is started, 
carried on and brought to a conclusion. The invention of the 
author seems to be boundless, and the interest of the reader is 
stimulated by the new and wonderful developments that crowd 
upon one another as the story proceeds. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 




An Excellent New Novel. 


INVISIBLE HANDS. 


AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

F. VON ZOBELTITZ, 

BY 

S. E. BOGGS, 

Translator of The Little Countess f etc^ 

WITH IL USTRA TI0N8 B Y JAMES FA OAN. 

12mo. 372 Faeree. Handsomely Boimd in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is a most excellent novel. The incidents are natural and 
probable, although uncommon ; and the admirable plot is based 
on transactions in Berlin and in Italy, both German and Italian 
characters figuring in it. It is rare that anything so powerful and 
dramatic comes to us in the form of German fiction. The story 
is intensely interesting, constantly gaining as new characters and 
fresh incidents are introduced in the working-out of the plot. 
The character of the Italian lawyer is worthy of the times of 
of Machiavelli. It presents a lovely picture of German family 
life, and the female characters represent all that is charming in 
girlhood and womanhood. This is a novel which everybody can 
read with pleasure and profit. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Yet She Loved Him, 

By Mrs. Kate Vaughn, 


— and 


Jephthah’s Daughter, 

By Julia Magruder, 

Author of "'A Magnificent Plebeian fi '*At Anchor f 
Honored in the Breachfi etc. 


With Illustrations by Warren B. Davis. 


12mo. 339 Fagres. Handaomely Bound, in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


*‘Yet She Loved Him” is a popular and sensational story 
of English life. It has many elements of interest, and will 
please all readers to whom a good story is the principal thing 
in a novel. Miss Magruder’s novelette, “Jephthah’s Daughter,” 
which is appended, is of a distinctly higher character. It is 
based upon the Biblical narrative, and is written in a style 
peculiarly appropriate to the subject, and full of beauty. The 
story is a brilliant piece of work. Nothing which Miss Magruder 
has written exhibits greater literary ability or more sustained 
power. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Novel by Fanny Lewald. 


The Mask of Beauty. 

AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

Fanny Lewald, 

BY 

Mary M. Pleasants. 

With Illustrations by F. A. Cai*ter. 

12mo. 340 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Fanny Lewald is one of the most celebrated writers of Ger- 
many. Her books have enjoyed great popularity, but few of them 
have been translated into English. This is a story of Hela, a 
peninsula jutting out into the Baltic Sea, of which Dantzig is the 
principal town. The maid of Hela is a poor orphan, whose rare 
beauty is the cause of her many trials. She is bred in a fishing 
village among a superstitious people, full of curiosity, and isolated 
from her neighbors by reason of her parentage and religion. The 
story is a minute and realistic study of character, manners and 
customs of an out-of-the-way corner of the world. The extra- 
ordinary beauty of the girl Catherine, whose life history is nar- 
rated, is made the cause of every important situation and the 
final tragedy of the novel. Nothing can be finer than the patient 
and loving art with which the author has developed her subject, 
and exhibited beauty as the mask of a pure and beautiful soul 
unconscious of the dangerous possession. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A New Novel by the Author of “ In the China Sea.” 


Two Qentiemen 

of Hawaii 


BY 

Seward W. Hopkins, 

Author of ''In the China Sea'' etc. 

With Illustrations by M. Colin. 

12mo. 244 Fag^s. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This novel deals with the revolution in the Hawaiian Islands. 
It takes the part of the revolutionists. It gives a complete 
account of the exciting events, beginning with the deposition of 
Queen Liliuokalani, the institution of the provisional government 
under President Dole and the offer of the islands to the United 
States. It is a thrilling picture of a period of intrigue, danger 
and revolutionary violence. Most of the characters are Ameri- 
cans concerned in the revolution, and the story is written ‘ from 
the point of view of a partisan who believes that the peace and 
prosperity of the islands are bound up with the new movement. 
It is a lively and interesting tale, full of sensation, with a vivid 
picture of the scenery and life of the islands and of the fatal 
malady with which the natives are afflicted. The terrors of lep- 
rosy are described. The superstitions of the Islanders and the 
volcanic eruptions on the Island of Lanai form a tragic back- 
ground to the story. At the present time, when public attention 
is engaged by the events transpiring in these islands, this novel 
has an especial attractiveness. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


A Story of the French Revolution. 


The Shadow of 

the Guillotine. 

BY 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., 

Author of “ The Gunmaker of Moscow” “ The 
Outcast of Milan f '‘'Blanche of 
Burgmidyf etc., etc. 

With Illustrations by Warren B. Davis. 

12mo. 429 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1-00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is an interesting and thrilling novel. Like all of Mr. 
Cobb’s works, it is interesting as a story from the beginning, 
dealing with historical scenes and events of one of the most ex- 
citing epochs’of modern times. The French Revolution was the 
first great outbreak of the people against hereditary power and 
privilege. The ideas of liberty and equality and government by 
the people, which were its active principle, were obscured and 
caricatured in the sanguinary tumult and riot into which the 
movement degenerated under the leadership of Robespierre and 
his companions. Through this tempest of fire and blood Mr. 
Cobb takes his readers, and fastens their attention while portray- 
ing the charming and manly characters whose story he tells. The 
thousands who have read The Gunmaker of Moscow ” will en- 
joy this novel. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


story of a French Millionaire. 


Mystery of Hotel Brichet. 


AFTER THE FRENCH OF 

Eugene Chavette. 


With Illustrations by James Fagan. 


12mo. 868 Fa«es. Handsomely Botmd in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is a French novel the scene of which is Paris of the last 
century. The great robber Cartouche en his trial betrays his 
associates, and it is through one implicated by his testimony that 
the author introduces the history of the House of Brichet. Truth 
is said to be stranger than fiction, but the story of the galley- 
slave who escapes from Toulon to figure as the possessor of mil- 
lions in the capital of France will compare favorably with anything 
that ever happened in the world of reality. It is seldom that a 
novel filled with exciting incidents is so entirely consistent from 
beginning to end and which gains in interest as the plot develops. 
The novel has something of the spirit and “go” of Alexander 
Dumas’s famous guardsman series, the most amusing character 
being a guardsman, a swordsman and a duelist. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


An Historical Novel, 


Blanche of Burgundy. 


BY 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., 

Author of The Gunmaker of Moscow f etc. 


With Illustrations by H. M. £!aton. 


12mo. 419 Fag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Blanche of Burgundy ” is a novel based upon incidents and 
scenes of a most interesting period of French history. It is the 
time of Charles the Ninth. The realm is divided into twelve great 
baronies or fiefs, the heads of which are princes almost independ- 
ent, owing military service and tribute to their sovereign. Charles 
has departed from France on the great mission of the Crusaders 
to rescue Palestine from the Moslem. The Duke of Burgundy, 
father of Blanche, is about to embark with his army for Egypt to 
join the king, but, before doing so, he awaits the marriage of his 
daughter, the beautiful Blanche, to Gregory of Tranche Comte. 
The latter proves a difficult subject, and the complications which 
ensue make a highly interesting novel. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


A Fresh German Translation. 


THE OPPOSITE HOUSE. 

AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

Nataly von Eschstruth, 

Author of A priestess of Comedy f “A Prtn- 
cess of the Staged' '‘^Her Little Highness^' 
Comitess Dynary' etc,y etc. 

With Illustrations by H. M. Eaton. 

12mo. 282 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Nataly von Esclistruth’s latest novel is a romantic love story, 
full of interesting situations, diversity of character and thrilling 
episodes, all subsidiary to a well-constructed and carefully devel- 
oped plot. The heroine is a lovely countess of proud and an- 
cient family. The hero of the story is a manufacturer and 
belongs to .the trading class, which in Germany is distinctly 
below the nobility. He throws up his business and takes an 
active part in the Franco-German War, and on the field of battle 
shows that there is quite as much nobility in the Prince of the 
Mill as in the titular princes of the court. We withhold the cli- 
max of the story, not wishing to dull the appetite and enjoyment 
of the' reader. This forms one of the best volumes in the 
Ledger Library series of German translations. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Mrs. Barr*s New Novel. 


The Flower of Gala Water. 

BY 

Amelia E. Barr, 

* Author" of Girls of a Feather^' “ The Bozu of 
Orange Ribbon^' “ Friend Olivia^' “ The 
Beads of Tasmer^' “ The Mate of the 
^Easter Bellf ''Mrs. Band's 
Short Stories^' etc.., etc. 

With Illustrations by Charles Kendrick. 

12mo. 400 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. TJniform with 

“ Girls of a Peather.” Price, $1.25. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


The Flower of Gala Water ” is one of Mrs.’ Barr’s most de- 
lightful novels of Scottish life and scenery. In her portrayal 
of Scotch character and manners she has no superior among 
contemporary writers. Her heroines are vital with love and fem- 
inine qualities, and possess an individuality which is charming. 
They have the freshness of youth and health, and impart to her 
pages their own attractiveness. Mrs. Barr’s fine sentiment and 
vigor of conviction have ample expression in her latest novel. 
No one can read it without having every noble feeling vitalized 
and exalted. It is this moral quality which renders “ The Flower 
of Gala Water ” a book to be placed in the hands of every boy 
and every girl. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


Heiinburg’s New Novel. 


FOR ANOTHER’S WRONG 


AFTER THE GERMAN OF 

W. Heimburg, 

Author of Miss Mischief^' ''An Insignificant' 
Woman y' etc., etc. 

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION 

BY 

A. W. AYER and H. T. SLATE. 

With Illustrations by James Fagan. 

12mo. 858 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Clotli. Price, $1.25. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Heimburg’s new novel is an intensely interesting love story. 
It is based on the sentiments and emotions which fill so large a 
place in the lives of women, and, therefore, appeals strongly to 
their sympathies. In reading of these imaginary lovers many 
will find parallel experiences in their own lives. The story has 
a romantic plot, and the incidents are calculated to enhance the 
interest. This is one of Heimburg’s best novels. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postpaid 
on receipt of price by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. WilHam and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY. 


No. AND Title. 

1— Her Double Life 

2— Unknown 

3— The Hunniaker of Moscow... 

4— Maml Morton 

6 — The Hidden Hand 

6— Sundered Hearts 

7 — The Stone-Cutter of Lisbon.. 

8— Lady Kildare 

9— Cris Rock 

10 — Nearest and Dearest 

11— The Bailill'’s Scheme 

12 — A Leap in the Dark 

13— Henry M. Stanley 

34— The Old Life’s Shadows 

15 — A Mad Betrothal 

16— The Lost Lady of Lone 

17— Ione 

18 — For Woman’s Love 

19— Cesar Birottean 

20— The Baroness Blank 

21— Parted by Fate 

22 — The Forsaken Inn 

23— Ottitie Aster’s Silence 

24 — Edda’s Birthright 

25— The Alchemist 

26 — Under Oath 

27— Cousin Pons 

28— The Unloved Wife 

29 — Lilith 

30— Reunited 

31 — Mrs. Harold Stagg 

32 — The Breach of Custom 

33 — The Northern Light 

34— Beryl’s Husband... 

35— A Love Match 

36— A Matter of Millions.... 

37— Eugenie Grandet 

38— The Improvisatore 

39— Paoli, the Warrior Bishop... 

40— Under a Cloud 

41 — Wile and Woman 

42 — An lusignincant Woman 

43— The Carletoiis 

44— Mademoiselle Desroches 

45— The Beads of Tasmer 

46— John Winthrop’s Defeat 

47— Little Heather-Blossom 

48 — Gloria 

49— David Lindsay 

50— The Little Countess 

51— The Chaiitaiiqiians 

62— The Two Husbands 

53— Mrs. Barr’s Short Stories 

64 — We Parted at the Altar 

55— Was She Wife or Widow ?... 
66— The Country Doctor 

57— Florabel’s f.over 

58— Lida Campbell 

59— Edith Trevor’s Secret 

60— Cecil Rosse 

61— Love is Lord of All 

62— True Daughter of Hartensteiu 

63— Zina’s Awaking 

64— Morris Julian’s Wife 

65— Dear Elsie 

66— The Hiin^riaii Girl 

68— A Son of Old Harry 

69— Romance of Troiiville 

70— Life of General Jackson 

71— The Return of the O’Mahony. 

72— Reuben Foreman, the Village 

73— Neva's Three Lovers 

74— “ Em” 

75— “Em’s” Husband 


Author. 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southwortb 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 

Major A. R. Calhoun 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Prof. Wm. Henry Peck 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Captain Mayne Reid 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Henry Frederick Reddall 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. South-vorth 

Honore De Balzac 

August Niemann 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Anna Katharine Green 

Mrs. D. M. Lowrey 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Honore De Balzac 

Jean Kate Ludlum 

Honore De Balzac 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

a n 

A Popular Southern Author 

Robert Grant 

Mrs. D. M. Lowiey. (Translator).. 

E. Werner 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 

Anna Katharine Green 

Honore De Balzac 

Hans Christian Andersen 

W. C. Kitchin 

Jean Kate Ludlum 

Mary J. Safford 

W. Heim burg 

Robert Grant 

Andre Theuriet 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

J ean Kate Ludlum 

Mary J. Safford. (Translator) 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

(4 ii <4 

S. E. Boggs. (Translator) 

John Habberton 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Malcolm Bell 

Honore De Balzac 

Laura Jean Libbey 

Jean Kate Ludlum 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

(( 

From the German 

it it 

Mrs. J. Kent Spender 

Elizabeth Olmis 

From the German 

44 44 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Albion W. Tourgee 

Brehat 

Oliver Dyer 

Harold Frederic 

Blacksmith. Darley Dale 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 

44 44 44 


Cloth. 

Papes. 

$1.00 

50 cts 

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THE LEDGER LIBRARY==Continued. 


No. AND Title. 


Author 


Cloth. Papbr 


Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

Col. Tliomas W. Knox 

Lllzabeth C. Winter 

Maurice Thompson 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach. 

W. Heimburg 

From the German 

Capt. Frederick Whittaker 

Jane G. Fuller 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis 

n n 


76— The Haunted Husband 

77— The Sibcrinii Exiles 

78— The Spanish Treasure 

79— The King of Honey Island 

80— ]>Iate of the “Easter Bell”.. 

81— The Child of the Parish 

82— Miss Mischief 

83— The Honor of a Heart 

84— Transgressing the l.aw 

85— Hearts and Coronets 

86— Tressilian Court 

87— Guy Tressilian’s Fate 

88— Mynheer Joe 

89— The Froler Case 

90— A Priestess of Comedy 

91— All or Nothing 

92— A Skeleton in the Closet 

93— Brandon Coyle’s Wife 

94— Love 

95— The Tell-Tale Watch 

96— Hetty; or the Old Grudge — 

97— Girls of a Feather 

98— Appassionata 

99— Only a Girl's Heart 

100— The Rejected Bride 

101— Gertrude Haddou 

102— Countess Bynar, or Polish Blood. 

103— A Sleep- Walker 

104— A Lover From Across the Sea and Other Stories. E.Wemer. 


8t. George Eathborne 

From the French by H. O. Cooke... 

Nataly von Eschstruth 

Count Nepomuk Czapski 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. South worth 


HonoreDe Balzac 

From the German 

J. H. Connelly 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. South worth. 


Nataly von Eschstruth. 
Paul II. Gerrard. 


105— A Princess of the Stage. 

106— Countess Obemau 

107— The Gun- Bearer 

108— Wooing a Widow 

109— Her Little Highness 

110— In the China Sea 

111— Invisible Hands 

112— Yet She Loved Him 

113— The Mask of Beauty 

114— Two Gentlemen of Hawaii. . 

115— i-The Shadow of the Guillotine 

116— Mystery of Hotel Brichet 

117— Blanche of Burgundy 

118— The Opposite House 

119— The Flower of Gala Water.. 

120— For Anor tier’s vVroug 

121— 1)11 a7 False Charge. 


Nataly von Eschstruth. 

Julien Gordon 

E. A. Robinson and G. A. 'Wall. 

Ewald August Koenig 

Nataly von Eschstruth 

Seward W. Hopkins 

F. von Zobeltitz 

Mrs. Kate 'Vaughn 

Fanny Lewald 

Seward W. Hopkins 

SylvanusCobb, Jr 

Eugene Chavette 

Svlvanus Cobb, Jr 

Nataly von Eschstruth 

Mrs. Amelia E. Barr 

W. Heimburg 

Seward W. Hopkins 


122— A Treasure Found- A Bride Won. George E. Gardner . 


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-.00 > 

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Every Number Beautifully Illustrated. / j ' 

I 




ROBERT BONNER’S 

Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts., 


SONS, 

I 

New York City. 




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